


Incubus

by Medeafic



Category: Star Trek RPF
Genre: Addiction, Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Noir, Anti-Catholic Sentiments, Asphyxiation, Biting, Blood, Broken Bones, Bullying, Car Accidents, Conspiracy, Cousin Incest, Drug-Induced Sex, Drugged Sex, Dubious Consent, Dubious Morality, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erectile Dysfunction, Face Slapping, Flogging, Forced Exhibitionism, Gambling, Gun Violence, Hair-pulling, Homophobia, Homophobic Language, Humiliation, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Infidelity, M/M, Manipulation, Murder, Necrophilia, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Non-Negotiated Kink, Physical Abuse, Prostitution, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rimming, Rough Oral Sex, Sexual Violence, Slurs, Smoking, Threats of Violence, Violence, Voyeurism, spitting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-03-29
Updated: 2016-08-22
Packaged: 2018-03-20 03:16:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 17
Words: 106,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3634581
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Medeafic/pseuds/Medeafic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Los Angeles, 1956. One fateful meeting finds Chris Pine, a down-on-his-luck writer, caught up in a sticky web of murder, money and deceit. Before he knows it, he’s in deeper than he ever imagined, and in more danger than even the <em>Los Angeles Examiner</em> could dream up. Can Chris trust his mysterious new lover, or is he penning his own final chapter?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Stranger

**Author's Note:**

> This is a noir fic, which means that the characters are sometimes unpleasant, immoral, murderous, or otherwise horrible. Please note that while this story is ostensibly RPF, and the characters bear some similarity to real people at least by name and appearance, it is not in any way meant to be a comment on those personalities or their ethics and morals. I am quite sure none of them would ever do anything herein described.
> 
> I will be updating the tags as the story unfolds, and will note new tags as I add them. This story will contain murder, sexual violence and character death/s. Please don't read it if you find those things triggering, squicky or upsetting.
> 
> I cannot possibly explain how helpful and supportive [Emmessann](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Emmessann/works) (Brilliant Beta), [Jouissant](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jouissant/pseuds/jouissant) and [LunaFaye](http://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaFaye) have been during the writing of this story. You have all been invaluable. Thank you for reading, squeeing, suggesting, critiquing and putting up with the ongoing whining. <3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chateau Marmont can cast a kind of spell over you before you know it. It looks like a fairytale castle and it can make you start dreaming fairytale dreams. This guy might’ve been my Prince Charming for all I knew, even though he’d only just told me his name; tall, dark and handsome, with a bottle of bourbon. I have simple tastes.

 

 

> To me, a wicked man who is also eloquent  
>  Seems the most guilty of them all.  
>  He’ll cut your throat as bold as brass, because he knows he can dress up murder  
>  In handsome words.
> 
> —Medea, from Euripides’ _Medea_ (580-583) _  
> _

 

I should’ve known it the first time I looked into his eyes, that this one would be the death of me. I should’ve seen it in the way he swung his long legs around the bar stool; should’ve seen it in the way he glanced at me with all the promise of an unholy night.  I should’ve known it right then.

But I didn’t know it. I was too charmed right off the bat, and too willing to help. That’s always been my problem: too willing to go all-in when someone’s got angel eyes and a sinful mouth. And just look where it got me, that Boy Scout nature. Bleeding to death in a Bel-Air mansion.

I guess that’s just the way things go for schmucks like me.

 

***

 

It was at Chateau Marmont I first saw him. I was trying to shake off a clingy bad mood so I headed to the Chateau to unwind with a bourbon. My rent was past due and I had a loan shark circling, waiting for me to start bleeding before he’d move in for the kill. But there’s nothing finer than Kentucky bourbon for making a fellow forget his troubles, and nothing finer than drinking it at the Chateau. Overpriced, maybe, but you can’t put a dollar figure on atmosphere. As it turned out, that yen for luxury was what skewed me off my happy path into a side-street Fate put on the map just for kicks.

I smelled him before I saw him; some woodsy cologne that I knew a broad must’ve bought for him. The bar was empty but he sat right next to my stool like he wanted my company or was looking to sell his own. You never can tell at the Chateau; sometimes it’s a little of both.

“Hello, friend,” he said. His eyes were honey pooled on cedar, and the gaze he gave me was definitely more than friendly. “You look like you could do with another.”

I’ve got two rules: never turn down a free drink or a free fuck. So I let him buy me a drink and hoped maybe he’d give me a reason to follow my second rule too. We sat without chitchat, giving each other the up-and-down in the dingy mirror behind the bar. He was a looker, alright, and suave as Mephistopheles. Dressed up to the nines with lapels too skinny to be anything but European. _Manicured_ was the word that sprung to mind, from the dense but disciplined thicket of his brows to his buffed nails. He maybe had some Italian in him. I decided I wouldn’t mind some Italian in me if it came down to it.

“You done?” he asked, once we’d downed another bourbon each.

“Sure,” I told him. He put a room key on the bar and I picked it up for him. “You’re out of luck if you’re looking for green,” I said. “Just so we’re clear.”

His teeth, when he laughed, were whiter than I’d seen for some time on the people around me—or maybe it was his sun-burnished skin making them seem that way. “Do I look like I need it? Leave it five, then meet me there.” He walked out of the bar without a look back.

I grabbed up my hat and followed him five minutes later. A man’s got to stick to his rules, after all.

 

***

 

He was staying within the secluded grounds of the Chateau, in one of the new bungalows on the hill. It was the furthest from the main hotel, so I had some time to think about what I was doing as I walked, but of course I didn’t think about it. Why should I? When I let myself in through the maroon lacquered door the radio was playing cool jazz, slow with a smoky percussion. He’d taken off his jacket and let his suspenders down around his waist. He stripped to his undershirt as I watched, twisting my hat in my hands, and then he strolled over to the bar. He was lean and ropy like a panther, and when he turned to raise a tumbler glass at me I got an eyeful of his chest hair poking over the neckline of his undershirt, bushy and black.

“Want another?” he asked.

“Sure.” I hung up my hat on the hook near the door, and did likewise with my jacket. It was getting threadbare around the elbows.

“I don’t stock bourbon. Scotch?”

“On the rocks. And soda.” It was only mid-afternoon, and I hadn’t known the fellow for long.

I glanced around the joint while he put together the drinks. It was modern, sparkling chrome around the wall of windows and the sliding door that led from the living room to an enclosed garden. The sofa was the latest model, thin legged and stylish and a vivid orange that warmed up the whole room. In front of it stood a cherry wood and glass Noguchi coffee table, with a heavy ivory ashtray sitting neatly in the middle. A single cigarette burned in it. The end wall of the room was open red brick, with a built-in fireplace; the other walls were cream-painted plaster and bare aside from a large round mirror and a print of the New York City skyline. All in all, it was light and sleek and fashionable.

I could see why these new bungalows were the talk of the town. I’d heard Bogie stayed in the poolside bungalows sometimes, and I could see him here too, mixing drinks and making nice with a sultry Lauren Bacall draped across the sofa.

I wondered what the bedroom looked like.

“Ellwood,” he said to me, handing me my whiskey.  He gestured with his own drink around at the walls. “Craig Ellwood. The hotel got him in to design this bungalow after he did his Case Study House in the Hills. It’s actually modeled after that house. But then I guess a guy like you wouldn’t know architecture.”

I didn’t take the bait. Some fellas like to big note themselves. “Maybe I should be asking _you_ for cash,” I said instead.

He took a sip of his drink while he looked me over, and then shrugged, licking neat scotch from his upper lip. “If you like.”

“Depends,” I said, and tossed back my drink in a few swallows. I gave him a grin and set my glass down. “Let’s see what you’ve got, first.”

He set his own glass back on the bar with one hand and grabbed my tie with the other, pulling me to him. This close up I could see the black tones in his iris, smudged and inky.

He wasted no time undressing me, and the way he crouched to unlace my boots and wriggle ’em off like I was royalty made me think for a minute that I’d read him slightly wrong. But no—once he’d got me naked to his liking it was clear he considered himself the top dog. Rich fellows, they always act the same. Lucky for him I liked it that way.

He clung to me where he was kneeling, wrapping his arms around me and rubbing his face into my thighs, mouthing at my balls. I ran a hand through his hair, but he grabbed at my wrists and held them secure behind my back. Alright, I thought. I didn’t mind that show. It was the greedy way he suckled at my prick that really took me by surprise, like a man starving for it. He kept it up without a break until I finished, as though he was just getting the formalities out of the way, and then he pulled me down to the floor next to him.

“Give me your ass,” he said, his voice rough. He was still dressed, but he kicked off his trousers as I turned over obligingly. He left the room for a moment to bring me a pillow and arranged it under me to cushion my tender parts from the carpet. Considerate, I thought, until I realized it also gave him more recoil when he was fucking me. He wasn’t gentle; he slathered me with Vaseline and used some oil on himself too, but there was no easing into it. If anything, he seemed to like the way I cursed him out when he drove home, inch by thick inch.

I don’t know what it was about him, but I enjoyed it. There’s a perverse part of me I guess likes to be treated shabbily. It gives me the opportunity to feel altruistic. But in truth, I got pleasure out of it as well, having him slam away at me there on the floor, the new carpet still stinking of glue as he pushed my face into it and sighed deviant things about how good I felt to him. I’d never had it quite like that before, both more frank and more sensuous than my usual bathhouse fumblings.

He even did me the courtesy of leading me to bed and having me for a second time on clean sheets. The bedroom, I discovered, was as modern and fashionable as the rest of the bungalow. The furniture was wood and glass, funny-shaped puzzles, like the side tables preferred to be art instead of useful. The bed was sturdy and plush, with a deep auburn-blushed wood frame and soft red velvet quilted to the headboard. It seduced me as quickly as my new friend had.

The second time he was more leisurely, like his frenzy had been tamed. He maneuvered me into a three-quarter, facedown position, shifting my limbs until he was satisfied. It all felt staged to me, the exactness of it, but there are some men who know what they want and won’t settle for a hair out of place. I supposed he was one of them.

“Leg,” he said briefly, and slapped at it until I bent it up and out of the way.

“You _could_ just ask,” I told him over my shoulder.

“I did,” he said, and breached me before I could say another word. It took him longer this time to build to a climax, his strokes slower and drawn out. He kissed me across the shoulders and licked up the side of my face, pressing his teeth into my cheekbone. I didn’t usually go for that kind of thing with pick-ups, because I’d had trouble in the past when teeth got involved, but with him it was different. I got the sense he wanted to eat me all up, like I was Little Piggy number three and he might not have been able to blow my house down yet, but he was sure as hell trying. And I didn’t mind, not one whit. 

He said filthy things in my ear, things I’d never realized I wanted to hear, but now I’d heard ’em, I wanted to do ’em. Or rather, I wanted _him_ to do them to _me_. I’d heard a lot of dirty talk before, but it never did much for me. This was different. Maybe it was his voice, slippery and syrupy and strangely accented, sticking over some of the vowels like he was reciting a sorcerer’s incantation. He bewitched me then and there.

All my senses were full of him: the scent of our coupling as it built between us, the sound of his breath gusting by my ear, the taste of him on my lips. He’d wrapped my mouth shut like I’d threatened to shout out all his secrets. It made it hard to breathe in the end, his fingers sliding higher and over my nose as we went on, and his other hand wringing out my prick. I ran out of air just before I came and pulled at his wrist, seeing stars, but he only let go when he felt me convulsing and my release sprayed his fingers. It didn’t take him much to finish after that, deep as he could get, like he wanted me wet inside and out.

Maybe it should have alarmed me then, the way he liked to love. But there seemed no reason to bellyache about it.  I’d known from the start he’d be rough trade. I guess he’d seen something compliant about me, too.

“Well, well,” I panted. “That was something.”

“Something, alright,” he agreed. “No complaints?”

“I won’t be asking for a refund, if that’s what you mean,” I said with a grin. 

We smoked in bed; he had Gauloises, of course, stored in a silver cigarette case, and I had one of his and another whiskey. There were initials inscribed on the case, but they were too curlicued to make out.  Inside, though, the declaration was clear: _All my love, Alice_. I lay down and balanced the drink on my chest, a cold hard circle to set an example for my heart. He set the ashtray on my gut. Nice to be able to serve, I thought. He slid down in the bed on his side, propped up on one elbow to look at me. He’d reapplied his cologne—to cover the smell of us? I wondered—and it flooded my nose, wiping away the scent of French cigarettes.

“What do you do, friend?” he asked.

“Why, I sit around Chateau Marmont waiting for good-looking men to buy me a drink.”

I expected a rise, but I didn’t get it. “And what else?” was all he said.

“I’m a writer, since you ask. Scriptwriter. B-films here and there, whatever pays.”

“Anything I might have seen?”

“I doubt it. I did a few romances. And I got fired offa that Robin Hood remake, did you see that? No? Well, you didn’t miss anything. Anyway, I’m through with the movies.” The truth was, the movies were through with me. My agent wasn’t returning my calls and I couldn’t get a look-in even from my oldest friends in the business. “I’m working on a novel, next, but it’s hard to write when you’re worrying about your next meal.”

He fished out an ice cube from my whiskey and rubbed it on my nipple, studying the response. I didn’t give him the satisfaction of squirming, but other parts of my body weren’t so obedient.

“Where are you from?” he asked.

“City of Angels, born and bred. You?”

“Back east.”

“That explains a lot,” I muttered.

“What’s that mean?”

“Old money.”

He gave an odd smile, his eyes hooded. “Good to know I pass, at least out west. I’ll have to tell Alice. She’ll laugh.”

“Tell your old lady about your conquests? Haven’t heard that one before. Give her all the details, do you?”

He said nothing. I’d known there was a dame since I saw him at the bar, but I still didn’t want her pushed in my face. I pictured her dowdy: stringy hair, adenoids and bunions maybe. Maybe his elegant fingers had to rub her feet nightly. The thought made me feel better.

“And so what are you?” I asked. “Some gigolo who’s married up?”

He took a suck of his Gauloise, one eye squinted shut against the smoke, and breathed the stream out the side of his mouth. With precision, he ground out the cigarette in the ashtray, pushing it into my diaphragm. “Something like that.” He put the ashtray on the side table, took a drink from my whiskey, and kissed me again.

A kiss like that can steal a fellow’s soul, so I decided I’d better make a move. “Well, I’ll be seeing you,” I said, and sat up. “I have to lay on a bet before tonight.”

“You’re a gambling man?”

“I’m a man who needs to pay the rent, and I got a tip about a horse.”

“You can take what you need from my wallet,” he said, and yawned. “It’s on the dresser.”

“Don’t get cute.”

“I know you’re no lizard. But if I have it and you need it, why not take it?”

I ignored him and pulled on my clothes.

“Say, listen,” he said. “That tip you got, is it solid?”

“Sure,” I told him. “Calambro in the third. Johnny Cho told me, and he knows his horsemeat.”

“Then take the money in my wallet and put it on Calambro for me. When she comes home you can keep a bookie’s fee, and leave the rest at the front desk for bungalow four. We both win, see?”

Look, I have my pride just like anyone else. But what he said made sense. And Calambro was as sure a thing as anything can be in this world. So I took the cash and told him I’d leave his take at the desk in a few days.

 

***

 

Calambro came in just like old Johnny said she would, and even just ten per cent off the top of the full win was enough to make me feel like a king. I bought and drank half a crate of champagne before I remembered exactly who I had to thank for my good fortune. Come Thursday I paid my back-rent and even covered another week in advance. I gave the loan shark enough to get him back out to open waters for a while.

On Friday I made my way back to the Chateau, via Schwab’s Pharmacy. I nodded to the industry folks I saw and dropped a dime to call my agent, who was available to me for the first time in a long time.

“Well, whaddya know, Karl? You aren’t dead.”

“Not yet, and you can keep your smart mouth to yourself,” he snapped.

“Settle down, settle down,” I said, surprised at the heat in his New Zealand accent. “Just wondering if there’s anything in the pipeline.”

There was a long pause, and a rustling of papers. “I’ve got nothing for you this week,” he said, and he sounded far away from the receiver.

“But?” I prodded.  Christ, it was like pulling teeth.

A scuffing noise, and then he was louder in my ear. “But there might be something coming up. You wrote for the papers at one time or another, right?”

“Sure, sure,” I said. You want to get ahead in this business, make enough to pay the rent, buy a new shirt occasionally, then you’ve done everything anytime someone asks and you’re willing to do it again.

“Word is the _Los Angeles Examiner_ is looking to branch out, get some more human interest pieces, you know the kind of thing. Their circulation’s gone way down since the Black Dahlia, but they might strike it big again with this new case. The Incubus.”

“Oh, sure,” I said, like I knew what he was talking about.

“So I’ll keep you in mind if I hear any more,” he said crisply.

It was better than the short shrift and out-to-lunch messages I’d been getting from his secretary for the last month, so I said that’d suit me fine and to let me know. I felt more cheerful than I had in a while, even on the whisper of a promise, so I set out to the Chateau to celebrate my good fortune and make good on my promise to the Italian.

It was busier this time at the Chateau, but dark as always in the lobby so you never knew if you were bumping into a chambermaid or a star. It might have been Ava Gardner in the corner under the velvet-shaded lamp, or it might have been a New York socialite with a judicious surgeon. I made my way to the desk to leave the packet, but the concierge materialized behind me and asked me to wait a moment. He was a curly-haired, baby-faced kid with his nose in the air and a hammy French accent.

“I don’t need any trouble,” I told him. “Just doing a favor. I don’t know the name, but it’s for bungalow four.”

But he insisted. “You will wait in the lounge, please.”

“I don’t think so, pal. At the bar, maybe. I need a drink.”

“Come, please,” he said, and he hustled me by my arm through to the lounge. It was dim and empty; the bar, I had seen, was bright and full of life, and there was a sweet-faced strawberry blonde in my view—just what I was looking for. I managed to pull my elbow out of his grip. “Now, just wait a minute. I just came to leave something, that’s all, and maybe enjoy the atmosphere over a drink. There’s no call—”

“I believe bourbon is your drink?” He waved a finger, and a glass of comfort appeared before me on a platter, held by one of the Chateau’s servers. Their staff always looked the same to me—so focused on being discreet that they faded in and out like specters. “Compliments of the house,” the concierge added.

“Well. If you insist.”

They had the day’s copy of the _Examiner_ there as well, so I looked it over. The new murder case Karl had mentioned took up most of the front page. They were calling this one the Incubus Killer since his victim had died from asphyxiation—or plain old strangulation to any Joe reading the paper. I couldn’t see why this murder caught their fancy more than any other, except that she’d been a beautiful blonde, and a jazz singer to boot. But the rags must have their sensational stories, not to mention their lurid nicknames, and ‘Incubus’ was a vivid one. The implications were clear, even though the details were left vague. The second half of the story was filled with tenuous allusions to the Dahlia case from ten years back. I lost interest, and turned to the ponies to check how my last flutter had gone. It hadn’t; the nag had been scratched. I groaned.

It wasn’t much of a surprise when my heavy-browed acquaintance turned up ten minutes and another house-gifted bourbon later. He was smartly dressed in a crisp linen shirt and vicuna coat.

“Hello, friend,” he said, as though he was glad to see me. “So you made your rent?”

I stood up. “What’s the big idea? I thought we had a straight deal. I left your cut at the desk, like we agreed.”

Some days back then, when I’d got down to nickels and dimes and had to decide between bourbon and the rent, I’d stare myself down in the bathroom mirror while I tried to make up my mind. The look he gave me then was a dead ringer for mine in those times. He swallowed, drew breath, and asked, “Are you in a hurry?”

I couldn’t rightly say I was, and he was a convincing fellow. That’s how I found myself back in that bungalow, back in his bed, enjoying him all over again. I was beginning to feel downright spoiled. He took his time this go round. No frenzied coupling on the floor; it was through to the bedroom, where he teased me with his mouth until I wanted to move things along. No point making this fling memorable. It would just get me down when I had to go back to bathhouses and dimly lit park benches.

“Come on,” I said. “Just give it to me.”

He slithered back up the bed and put a hand around my throat. “Not yet,” he said, squeezing a little. “No, not yet.”

I thought about removing his hand, but it felt snug where it was.  I smiled instead, and he looked intrigued.

“You like this?”

“I don’t mind it.”

He took it away then, and wrapped it around my prick instead, wet with his spit. “Let’s get you seen to,” he said. “Since you’re in such a hurry.”

I tried to protest, but he worked me hard and fast, almost painfully. When that was done he sat on top of my chest, so I had to fight a little to breathe. He liked watching me strive for it, I guess, and made me pull at him until he finished on my face. I was gasping for air as much as he was by that time, but he just sat back and looked at me, smiling a little.

“You get rid of your loan shark?”

“Now, how did you know about that?” I puffed.

“With guys like you, there’s always a loan shark.”

Maybe he was right, but I didn’t see the need to be insulting about it, and not when he was making it so damn hard to breathe. I pushed at him, and he tumbled gracefully back on the bed. “Why the interest in my finances?”

Instead of replying, he reached over me for his cigarette case and the square silk handkerchief he’d taken from his pocket when we’d undressed. He handed the latter to me and watched me clean my face while he lit one of his Gauloises.

He offered it to me, so I took a drag and handed it back. I grabbed the ashtray and held it for him. “You ever going to tell me your name?” I asked.

He sucked the smoke deep into his lungs and blew three rings before he replied. “Quinto.”

Italian, just like I’d thought. “You got a first name?”

“Zachary.”

“That biblical?”

“What’s yours?” he asked.

“Christopher Pine. Look up my byline sometime; my agent tells me I’ve been drafted for the newspaper game.”

Quinto coughed and stabbed out his cigarette. “Is that so?” he said after a moment. “You don’t sound happy about it.”

It was my turn to blow smoke rings. “It gets my name out there,” I said at last, “but I’d rather be known for my novels. You know, I met F. Scott Fitzgerald at Schwab’s once? Not far off the time his ticker went out. He asked me for a light. I wish I could say we talked about something big, something worthwhile, but all he did was compliment me on my cufflinks.”

“Well, now; that’s still something.”

“My sister bought ’em for me.” I don’t know why, but it struck me as funny, and I laughed. So did he. It was the first time I’d heard him laugh. It was just a small chuckle, like he was unwilling to let it out, but I felt like maybe it showed we had more in common than just the physical.

The thought disturbed me somehow, so I rolled away and got out of bed. I pulled on the robe lying on the chair in the corner. It smelled like him, like the cologne he always wore: somber, expensive and continental, like a cedar box with amber inlay.

“You still have them?” he asked, stretching. He rolled onto his side and propped up his head with his hand. His cock, heavy and long even in its resting state, draped across his thigh. “Your Fitzgerald cufflinks, I mean. What happened to them?”

“Sold ’em,” I said briefly, and tried not to seem down in the mouth about it. I’d come over melancholy for no good reason. Those cufflinks had bought me five weeks’ freedom from the Weller Boys, after all.

“You’re going into reporting, you say. You know anything about this Incubus Killer all over the papers?” he asked.

I shook my head. “Nor does the _Examiner_ , I’d bet my soul, but they’ll make up whatever they need to if it’ll sell.”

The room felt close, so I pulled up the blinds to open the window.

“Don’t do that,” he said, and before I knew it he’d sprung out of the bed behind me and closed the blinds again. “We can turn on the ceiling fan if you like. But don’t open the window; don’t pull up the blinds. You never know who’s looking in or listening.” His tone was terser than I’d heard yet.

“You on the run?”

It was just a stupid gag, but he turned away. He walked into the living room, naked still, like he was used to the state. When I followed, he’d already poured me a drink from a brand new bottle of bourbon.

Chateau Marmont can cast a kind of spell over you before you know it. It looks like a fairytale castle and it can make you start dreaming fairytale dreams. This guy might’ve been my Prince Charming for all I knew, even though he’d only just told me his name; tall, dark and handsome, with a bottle of bourbon. I have simple tastes.

“You ever feel trapped?” he asked abruptly. We were standing at the bar, looking at each other.

Something about the stare he was giving me made me truthful. “Every day of my life.”

“What would escape look like to you?”

I laughed at that. “I guess it would look something like this. Living here in this fine hotel, drinking the best bourbon money can buy, writing my heart out and spending my free time with someone who gives a damn about me.”

“You think that, do you?” He gave me a calculating look then, a look I hadn’t seen on him before. “You think I give a damn about you?”

I wandered to the window and peered out between two slats of the blinds. “Sure seems like it. No other reason you’d buy a bottle of bourbon on the off chance you’d catch me again when I came in.”

“Maybe I like bourbon.”

“You’re a scotch man; that much is clear.”

“I loathe scotch,” he said violently.

“Okay,” I said. “No need to go blooey over it.”

“Say I do give a damn about you.”

“Alright, let’s say that.”

“Say I want you to come live here. Give you a break from things so you can write this great American novel of yours. This is the perfect place. Maybe you’ll meet the ghost of Fitzgerald in the bar. He drank here, you know.”

“Sure, I know. ’S’why I come here.” I may be a lush, but even my soaked brain could tell something was up. “What’s going on here?”

He smiled, treacle-sweet. “A business proposal, and perhaps a little pleasure on the side. You live here, all expenses paid, and maybe you keep laying on bets that pay out like that last one did. Write your stories without worrying about the tedious little details in life.”

“Anything else?”

“I enjoy your body, that’s no secret. You certainly seem to enjoy mine. Why shouldn’t we set things up to make it easier to do that?”

Outside, by way of my letter-box-slot view through the blinds, I saw a blur of white coming along the path. It was a woman, tall and slim, her face concealed by an enormous white hat. She stopped at the bungalow next door. The way the broad’s hat moved around I could tell she was looking about carefully before she opened the door and pushed inside like the hounds of hell were on her tail.

Hollywood. It’s a whole different world.

I turned to look at my companion. “Put some clothes on, will you? You make it hard to think.”

He raised one of his thick eyebrows, set his whiskey down, and untied my robe. I let him take it off me and put it on himself. The man wanted to make a point, so why not let him?

“Is this better for you?” he asked.

“Seems to me what you want is a kept man.”

He leaned in to kiss me, that kiss of his that could suck out my will and reason and leave me panting. He used it as a weapon, and my defenses were failing. “Not at all,” he said, leaning his face against mine so I couldn’t look away. “I want to be your artistic patron.”

“Patron, eh?” The idea appealed to my vanity. Things are always clearer looking back. He could play me like a fiddle.

“And bedfellow,” he amended. “But one does not necessarily have to follow from the other. Still, it seems foolish to turn down free board and amenities. I can give them, and you need them, so—”

“So why not take them,” I finished for him.

It’s my weakness, and I know it now, to take the easy way when it’s offered. I lived like water my whole life, finding the quickest way to flow from A to B, and if it meant I ran over rocks or crashed down a waterfall here and there, I’d learned to ignore it. I didn’t realize I was headed straight for the ocean, where my happy little river of life would be swallowed up by the churning Atlantic.

He kissed me again.

“Alright, why the hell not,” I said afterwards. “It was good enough for Michelangelo. You patronize me, and I’ll do my best to make you a whole new fortune on the ponies. As long as Johnny Cho keeps coming through with his tips, anyway.” I didn’t mention that Johnny wasn’t so free with them these days as he had been, not since I got in so deep.

The bungalow had a second bedroom he suggested we convert to a study. The Chateau would do it alright—they’d do anything as long as they were paid, and they’d be discreet about it too.  I told him I wouldn’t need much anyway: a desk, a chair and a typewriter. I’d have to keep the blinds closed in here too, he told me, but that suited me well enough. I like to write in the dark. Easier to see the monsters you’re describing.

“Only I can’t keep cooped up in the bungalow all day,” I said. “I’ll have to go out _some_ time, and people will see me.”

He agreed, in the end. “It’s not so much you, I suppose, who needs to keep hidden. As long as you keep the blinds closed when you’re in here; and I’ll use the private entrance. I can be surer no one will see me coming and going that way.”

The subterfuge of it all appealed to me. Like we were getting one over on the rest of the world; certainly on his wife. Thinking of her made me feel like a rat, but for all my hard drinking back then and my lack of scruples, I was still a babe in the woods. I didn’t know how deep in filth real vermin buried themselves.

“I’ll send for your things tomorrow,” he said. “The Chateau can arrange it.”

“Don’t bother. Everything I own can fit into a suitcase. I’ll lug it myself.”

So it was all settled, just like that. I walked into it easy as you please.

 

 


	2. Sunset Blvd.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This was it, I thought—this was everything I had ever been meant for, and all I had to do was keep Quinto happy and write like the devil.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Alcoholism and alcohol abuse; gambling; from here on out there are period pejorative names and slurs used for different nationalities including the French, Germans, English, and Americans.

It didn’t take me long to make myself at home. I wasn’t exaggerating about my dearth of worldly possessions, but more than that, the Marmont was homey. The staff made it their business to be friendly and helpful but distant, and no one ever bothered me unless I wanted them to. I got into a routine fast enough. I made myself dry toast for breakfast and then I’d write. I’d work through lunch in a frenzy. I didn’t know if what I was writing was any good, but there sure was a lot of it. By mid afternoon I’d be done, feeling wiped out like I’d gone ten rounds with Joe Louis. I’d head to the pool and watch starlets trying not to get their hair wet or their faces tanned. I heard a lot of gossip and forgot more.

Sometimes, if I had less patience for the company of others, I’d lie out in the backyard of the bungalow on one of the loungers and take in the sun. The garden was a nice cozy size, and even had a patch for vegetables if the occupants had a whim, but I stayed clear of it despite my itching green thumb. It spoke too much to my unrestrained fantasies of domesticity with the man paying for my services. No point planting something if I was going to abandon it down the line.

But damned if the Italian hadn’t been right about it: living with all my whims catered to meant I had more time to think, and more time to write. I’d been struck with inspiration after seeing a desperate-eyed dame get left at the dinner table by her date. She’d ducked her head but I saw a tear splash into her cocktail glass. When she pulled herself together and drank it down, it was like she was destroying the evidence. She sashayed out of the restaurant with her head held high, and I figured any girl with that kind of gumption deserved immortalizing in fiction. I never saw her again, but I’d found the model for my heroine. I still needed my hero—and a plot. I wanted something to do with money, and the getting of it.

Yes, Chateau Marmont was everything I’d ever hoped for. It could even service my gambling needs. There was always an available pool of long-legged boys camped out at the foot of the hotel driveway on Sunset. Any one of them would take a nickel to run my pony picks down to Johnny Cho’s front shop.

“What name, sir?” the kid asked, the first time I did it. He didn’t even ask the address, so I figured it was a usual thing.

“You tell him it’s from his old buddy, Chris Pine,” I said, and added grandly, “With compliments.”

Later that evening the concierge, who only ever went by the name Monsieur Anton, stopped me on my way through to the dining room and passed on a packet with my name on the front and _John Y. Cho, Esq._ on the back in beautiful flowing script.

 

> _Glad you haven’t given up on the horses or I might have had to use persuasion. Your custom is always welcome. Balance enclosed._
> 
> _Suggest Trixie Fair next Wednesday in the third._
> 
> _Your best pal in the whole world,_
> 
> _Johnny_

 

I didn’t like what I read into his lines about persuasion, and I groaned as I peeked at the dough he’d included. He’d only sent me a few sawbacks as my win, probably to offset my last big triumph. But what was I going to do, make a complaint? Johnny Cho took whatever vig he liked, and if I didn’t like it, I could go elsewhere. But no one else put up the kind of odds Johnny did.

The concierge, looking at the potted plant in the corner, murmured, “If monsieur would enjoy access to ready cash, the Chateau will be delighted to arrange…” He got so low and burbly that I could barely make him out, but I did catch the familiar name of Weller in there somewhere.

“No thanks,” I said at once. “We’re already acquainted, and I don’t think the Chateau would be so delighted to clean up after a meeting between the Weller Boys and me.”

The Weller Boys were named for the master they served—my regular loan shark, Pete Weller. Johnny Cho could be your best friend, wise uncle and Santa Claus all in one. If he had his men bust your nose over the capital you owed, you ended up disappointed in yourself for letting him down but grateful he’d let it slide so long. Pete Weller, on the other hand, brooked no defiance. It was pay up, on time, or get rolled: thank you kindly for your business.

No, Pete Weller was not an option. Besides, I didn’t need him. Johnny had come through with another tip, and I had plenty of ready income from Quinto. Things were looking up. I did wonder for a moment how the concierge might have come to guess about my troubles, but I figured the name Johnny Cho would have been enough of a clue. I tipped Monsieur Anton for his trouble, and went on through to the restaurant.

The Marmont restaurant was where I ate most nights, or else I got room service. My choice depended on how drunk I was, although as the days went by I found myself drinking less. Quinto was absent more often than not, but breezed in any old time it pleased him, without warning and with a fresh bottle of bourbon each time, even though I’d slowed up on it. The writing was more important to me than the hooch, and that was maybe the biggest surprise.

Quinto was attentive when he _was_ there, and read my pages with an intensity I hadn’t ever seen in my agent. “These are good,” he’d say, and frown.

“What’s the matter?” I’d laugh. “You’re my patron; shouldn’t you be happy your investment’s paying off?” He’d put me off asking questions by taking me to bed, having me however he wanted, as many times as he wanted. Some nights he was insatiable, kept me up until dawn, left me aching and exhausted, and those times I had to skip the pool and make up my writing time in the afternoon.

The man was an accomplished lover, though, I’ll give him that. He never made much noise, like he was holding himself back—only a small sigh when he finished, but he just about made me sing. In fact, I resolved to keep quieter after a run-in with my erstwhile neighbor one afternoon as I was heading back from the pool. I figured maybe it was the noise she objected to, because she sure objected to _something_ about me.

She was coming down the path from her bungalow, and jumped out of her skin at the sight of me. I had a towel slung around my neck and my bathing shorts on, so I was decent, but the way her hand fluttered to her throat you’d’ve thought I was as God made me.

“Hullo, neighbor,” I said in a cheery sort of way. She was a real beauty, even under the immense sunhat and the sunglasses that took up half her face. She always wore that hat around the Chateau grounds, crownless so her black hair was on display, the brim white and billowing around her shoulders like an upside-down magnolia. She reminded me of a flower herself: tall and reed-thin, her body the stem for her flowering headdress. Her skin was smooth and brown, and her lips were full, made for kissing. She wore her hair coiled in an elaborate braided bun on the top of her head.

I hadn’t been with a woman for a while, and I can’t deny she made me miss it. I gave her my most charming smile, but she looked away from me.

“ _Lo siento, no hablo inglés_ ,” she muttered, and took off down the path.

Twenty years ago Harry Cohn, king of the casting couch, had told his contracted stars that if they were going to get into trouble, they should do it at Chateau Marmont. My observations around the place told me that the sentiment still held, so this dame might have been an actress, but I couldn’t place her if she was.

I took a moment to appreciate her quickly-retreating figure before I continued on to my bungalow. My bungalow. That was how I was thinking of it now. Quinto kept a few changes of clothes there and some magazines and a shaving kit, but the place was filling up with me now. My books, my papers. My new clothes, too; part of our arrangement was a liberal weekly stipend, which I was happily putting to use. Yellow envelopes stuffed with cash appeared with regularity on my writing desk, as though putting them where I worked made it all above board. I was even able to send a tidy sum off to my Ma. After my father died, Ma’d moved to Iowa to live with my sister Katie and her corn farmer husband. I didn’t like to think of Ma wanting for anything, and helping her made me feel good inside, like I was finally becoming the respectable son she’d always deserved.

Thanks to my parents, I’d worked in the film industry most of my life: I grew up on set because my folks used to take me with them when they worked bit-parts. My first job was bringing coffee and newspapers for the stars on early morning shoots, and my first _paid_ job was running script changes back and forth between the studio and the set. I got quick and agile on my feet, used to dodging around the big stars at top speed. I got a dime a day for my fast legs, and a chance to watch the writers at work. The actors were only background noise to me, because I knew the real power wasn’t in front of the camera but behind it.

But somehow, being at the Chateau I found myself falling for that Los Angeles glamor even though I knew about the writhing underbelly of the industry. One night I fell in love with Marilyn Monroe while I watched her across the restaurant dining room, and the next I couldn’t help myself making eyes at Montgomery Clift while he waited in the lobby for his car to be brought round. In the dim light I’d taken him for Quinto, a serendipity that led to a dinner invitation. Kim Novak let me light her cigarette by the pool one day, and the look she gave me kept my heartstrings humming all weekend. I’d been tossed in among a candy-mix of Hollywood stars and I was enjoying myself thoroughly. This was it, I thought—this was everything I had ever been meant for, and all I had to do was keep Quinto happy and write like the devil.

It occurred to me one afternoon that I hadn’t been to Schwab’s for a while, so I strolled down Sunset Boulevard and went in there to buy a packet of cigarettes and a newspaper. The _Examiner_ was still pushing the Incubus killer without any new information, and the other papers had grudgingly picked it up, though they were avoiding the nickname. The _Examiner_ had a new photograph of the victim, blonde and buxom and pouting into a microphone, but she looked awkward somehow. Her eyes were full of uncertainty. Rachel Nichols, her name was. Funny, I hadn’t noticed her name before. I skipped to page two.  

I was greeted by some industry acquaintances who remarked on how well I was looking—particularly for someone on the outs with the studio. I just tapped the side of my nose, grinned at their curiosity, and turned to the pony results to see if I’d won anything. Nada. But it didn’t bite like it used to, not now I had a safety net.

I was seated at the counter and halfway through a muddy cup of joe, bolstered with a little extra from my hipflask, when someone clapped me on the shoulder.

“Pine, you bastard. Where’ve you disappeared to?”

When you’ve become accustomed to fending off demands for payment, like I was then, you don’t take kindly to claps on the shoulder. Especially not when I had Weller on my mind already. I whipped around. “The hell do you want, Urban?” I snarled.

“That’s no way to greet a mate,” he said, injured. Karl Urban’s Antipodean accent attracted attention wherever he went, and every head at the counter swiveled to look at us. He’d once told me he stowed away on an American sub after the war, but I never knew if it was the God’s honest truth or not. I wouldn’t have put it past him.

“A mate, eh? Is that what you are?” But I shuffled over a bit to give him room to sit.

“Don’t be like that,” he wheedled. “I’ve been looking for you. I told you I might have something coming up. Well, it’s come up alright. The _Examiner_ wants you to do an interview.” He ordered a glass of milk, put his hat on the counter, and took one of my cigarettes without asking.

I pushed away the dregs of my coffee. I was used to something smoother now at the Chateau, and even the splash of bourbon I’d added to it couldn’t save it. “Sorry, Karl, I found something of my own.”

He gave me a friendly smile, but there was a vein throbbing away under his left eye. “Aw, don’t say that. Come on, you know you need the work.”

“I’m telling the truth, Karl. Found myself a post. Can’t you tell?” I nodded down at my shoes, brand new and bought only yesterday.

“Huh,” he said, looking down. He fiddled with his cigarette and got quiet.

“What’s the matter with you?” I asked at last.

He looked past my shoulder, and then at my left wrist. “I was just hoping to send you to this interview. You seemed like the right fit. They wanted something Gatsbian.”

“Gatsbian?” I was intrigued and, I’ll admit it, flattered.

Karl nodded emphatically and drank off his milk in one go. “That’s what they said, and I thought of you.” He wiped away his milk-mustache with the back of his hand.

“What’s the job?”

“Some English toff, Lord Cummerbund. They want a piece on him—what’s he like, what’s he spent his money on, how much debauchery goes on in his house, that sort of thing. Colorful, faintly disapproving; you know the tone they like. And the paper asked for you, specific-like. Said they’d read your other stuff and it would suit the piece.” He could see me about to demur again, so he put the boot in. “You’d be doing me a favor if you took it. I could use the commission.”

I sighed. “Damn it, Karl.”

“Good man.” He grinned with hard relief. “I’ll send over the details. Where are you living now, anyway? Finally get evicted from your rat hole? I’ve been trying you there and here all week.” He scooped up his hat and replaced it on his head, jamming it down.

I walked with him to the door. “You can leave it at Chateau Marmont.”

He whistled and stopped dead outside. “You weren’t kidding about a new post. How’d you swing that?”

I settled my hat at an angle and winked at him. “Just send the details, Karl. I’ll get you your commission.”

I set off back to the Marmont and got a block down before I remembered I’d left my cigarettes on the counter. I wheeled back around to collect them, but when I reached Schwab’s, I saw Karl a little way down the street, arguing with someone in a town car. The windows were reflecting lights, and I couldn’t see much more than a faint silhouette inside. I’d rarely seen Karl lose his temper—he was an easy-going fellow and enjoyed his life to the full—but there he was, gesturing wildly and waving his hat around.

Curious, I slipped into a doorway and made myself inconspicuous. The argument ended seconds later when Karl kicked the front tire. The car screeched off, heading away from me down Sunset. Karl watched it go, his shoulders slumped. Eventually, he replaced his hat and shuffled down a side alley.

I collected my cigarettes and made my way back to the Chateau. By the time I arrived at the bungalow I was whistling again. Karl’s problems, after all, were not mine.

 

***

 

That night I was yanked out of my writing stupor when I heard the bungalow door open. I wandered out of the study in a daze to see Quinto across the room, glaring at me from beneath his brows.

There was no _Hello, friend_ this time. He stalked his big cat stalk across to me and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Where were you today? I called. There was no answer.”

“Hey, stop that. I’m here now, aren’t I?”

He gripped me a mite harder before letting me go and wiping the sweat from his upper lip. He was in disarray, for him at least: his hair flopping forward and his shirt unbuttoned at the throat under a loosened tie. It had some school crest on it I didn’t recognize. “I beg your pardon,” he said. “That was ungentlemanly of me.”

“That’s a fine thing to say for someone who’s spent himself on my face,” I said spitefully, and he gave me a pained glance.

“There’s no need to be vulgar.”

“It’s no more vulgar to say it than it is to _do_ it. What’s biting you, anyway? Why should it matter where I’ve been today?”

He poured us both a bourbon, and thrust mine into my hand, waiting until I’d drunk it half down before sipping his own. “Have you seen any familiar faces today? Here at the hotel, or on the streets? Maybe someone you’ve seen before once or twice?”

“Not so’s I’ve noticed, no.” I accepted a top-up to my drink. “What’s going on? Tell me straight.”

He ran a hand through his hair, sweeping it back from his formidable brows. He was pale, his dark features standing out like charcoal smudges on paper.

I thought I’d caught on. “Has your wife found out? Is that it? She’s hired a private dick to follow us around?”

“Wife?” He stared at me.

“You mentioned her once, that first time. Alice.”

He gave an impatient shake of the head. “Alice has nothing to do with this. But yes, I think you might be being followed. I have—” He hesitated, and then: “— _associates_ who would have an interest in doing so.”

I sat down on one sofa and he sat on the other, hunched over and worried.

“You telling me you’ve got Family connections?”

There it was again, that look, like I was a gelding on its first run and he was calculating my odds. “Let’s just say,” he said slowly, “that I think it would be best if you don’t go out for a few days. Not into town. Stay here at the Chateau.”

“Nix on that,” I said at once. “A man’s got to be free to come and go.” I’ve always rankled at people giving me orders. Made life difficult as a lowly scriptwriter, I can tell you. “Besides, a job’s come in.”

Quinto chewed on his bottom lip. “Job? What job?”

“Interview for a daily paper. They asked for me. Want a story on some rich English blueblood, and I said I’d get it for ’em. So that’s what I plan to do.”

“Look here,” Quinto said, and stopped for a moment. He went for the bluff, drawing on that bogus old-world attitude he did so well, and trying to run roughshod over me. “We have a deal, friend, and I’m afraid I don’t pay for you to run around doing puff pieces on foreigners.”

“No. You don’t pay me for _that_.” I stared him in the eye until I saw he knew my meaning.  

He said coolly, “As it happens, I’ve been meaning to have a word with you about our arrangement. I’ve heard tales of you making nice with some of the other guests here.”

I would’ve bet anything it was that fake Frog concierge who told on me. “I can’t help it if Monty Clift likes my face,” I said. “And I’ll have you know he invited me to dinner, but I turned him down.”

It was mostly true. When I’d chatted him up in the lobby, Clift had suggested I join his party for dinner one night, and I’d told him I’d think about it. It hadn’t felt quite right, and it wasn’t only because of Quinto’s money. It was because of the man himself. I was feeling something for him beyond what I’d planned. I hadn’t fronted up at Clift’s dinner table yet, but I’d been considering it, if only to shake off the spell Quinto had cast on me.

“Monty Clift has enough on his plate without adding _you_ as a side dish,” Quinto said stiffly, and I couldn’t help the radiating satisfaction that warmed my insides. Was that jealousy I detected?

“What is this, anyhow?” I asked. “It doesn’t make a lick of sense, that they’d be following _me_. It’s you who matters to them, whoever they are. Whoever _you_ are. And I’m no coward; if trouble’s coming, I’d rather look it in the face.” That last bit was bravado, but I meant it at the time.

“Chris,” he said, quiet and clear. He rarely called me by my Christian name. “I don’t ask for much from you, but I’m asking you this. Don’t go out, not for a few days. Stay in here, please. Turn down that job. Don’t I give you everything you need, everything you ask for? Stay away from Lord Cumberbatch.”

He caught his breath after he said the name, and I thought I had him. Lord Cummerbund, Karl had said. Seemed about right.

“How do you know his name?”

His eyelids flickered. “There are only so many émigré aristocrats in this city.”

I shook my head. “No dice, Quinto.”

“It’s better for all of us if you stay away. Come, now. I’m asking politely.”

Better for all of us. Who was he including, I wondered. Not _the both of us_ , but _all of us_.

I sank the last of my bourbon and shrugged. “Alright,” I said. “If it’ll make things easier for you. I can see you’re wound up.”

“Will you ease my mind fully, and call your agent now, tell him you can’t do the job? Just so I don’t have to worry.”

Eyeing him, I walked to the phone. I made sure he couldn’t see my finger holding down the hook so the call wouldn’t connect. I was lucky I didn’t have to go through the concierge to get an outside line. “Hello, there, Betty. Is Karl in? Oh…I see…no, I needed to get a message to him, that’s all…listen, tell him from me, will you, I can’t do that interview he set me up for? Tell him I’m sorry, but something’s come up. He’ll have to send someone else…No, no need for him to call back. Thanks, Betty.” I replaced the receiver and turned around again. “There. See? Now you can be sure of me.”

He thanked me, and then he took me to bed and thanked me again. He rocked into my body more gentle than he’d ever been before, taking his sweet time and making me grateful I’d obeyed. He was training me, and I knew it, but damn if I didn’t like it.

It wasn’t until later that evening after he left that I started to feel like a louse about my lie. There was no way I was letting this interview go, not now. I intended to visit this Cumberbatch and maybe even drop my mysterious patron’s name, just to see what would happen.

Stupid? Yes, it was stupid. But there’s one trait I share with real reporters and cats: curiosity. Mine was roused, and anyway, I didn’t like the idea of being confined to my quarters. A gilded cage is still a cage.

I played it straight, though. Karl was as good as his word, and the details came through. The interview was set for three days later. I made a show of reading the note in front of the concierge and ripping it up, just in case I was right about Monsieur Anton, that he was on Quinto’s payroll. “The Marquess of Holford, Lord Benedict Cumberbatch,” I read out, shaking my head. “Ain’t that a dilly of a name. Anyhow, change of plans for me. Got a better offer.” I handed him the shreds, even as I was mentally repeating the Bel-Air address so I’d remember it. “Trash this for me, will you?”

For two days I prowled the Chateau, keeping clear of the front entrance as much as possible, and spending most of my time writing or lying by the pool. I saw my neighbor once again, and nodded her way, but she ignored me. I watched her coming and going sometimes through the slats of my blinds, which I kept down in accordance with Quinto’s wishes. She always wore white and that absurd hat, so I took to thinking of her as the Magnolia Girl.

Quinto came by on Wednesday night, earlier than usual. His affection had increased as time went by, and I could feel myself responding to it. We were getting used to each other, finding what piqued each other’s interest, what made us smile, our likes and dislikes. Not just in the sack, either; he brought me diamond cufflinks one day and told me they were a talking point for the next time I ran into a famous author.

It was a dangerous game for a gigolo and his distraction to be playing, and sometimes I wasn’t even sure which of us was which. I knew there was no hope of it lasting. I didn’t even know how long he’d stay in LA—and didn’t ask. I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving Chateau Marmont, going back to my old life, even just a few weeks after I’d left it.

Come mid-afternoon Thursday, I had to make my final decision about the interview. It was too late to back out, anyway, I reasoned. I’d promised Karl I’d go, and the Englishman was expecting me. I’d been curtailed in my research on him thanks to Quinto putting the kibosh on me leaving the Marmont grounds, but there were a few mentions in the national papers, as well as the local rags that the hotel brought in every day. The Marquess of Holford, Lord Benedict Cumberbatch, was a collector. Exactly what he collected was not made clear, but he was attending quite a few antiques auctions. There were blurry pictures of him here and there—once I hadn’t even recognized my own mother in the social pages—but they were indistinct and gave no impression other than austerity and English traditionalism. I was surprised he’d found anything to suit his fancy in Hollywood.

I took the private exit from the bungalow, just in case the concierge tried to stop me. I walked around to Sunset and down to Schwab’s, where I flagged a taxi and gave him the address in Bel-Air. My God, the houses out there were something, and even for a native like me they seemed too much. Ostentatious and glamorous and nauseating.

“Come back for me in an hour,” I told the cab driver. “There’ll be something extra for you in it.” I wanted to make sure I had my escape route planned, just in case things went south. I wasn’t expecting trouble—if anything, I thought Quinto was overselling the danger. What would an English peer be doing mixed up in criminal activities, after all? But something was clearly afoot, and I wanted my bases covered.

The cab dropped me at the bottom of the steep driveway, so I had some thinking time as I strolled up towards the house, a white monstrosity of Neoclassicism. It was fringed with greenery so that the windows looked like eyes flirting from behind a verdant fan. The lush surroundings did little to dull the imposing façade of the portico, flanked as it was by stern ionic columns that looked to my active imagination like bared teeth. Nor did the tranquil pool in the center of the circle drive with blank-eyed spouting dolphins make it seem any more welcoming. I stopped to jot down a quick description of it in my notebook, and to catch my breath.

Then I saw it, parked off to the side of the house in front of the long garage: the very same town car I’d seen on Sunset, the one Karl had kicked in the midst of an argument. I stopped dead, staring at the familiar number plate. Did it mean something? Maybe it was chance; maybe the car had stopped to ask for directions, and Karl had lost his temper…but that wouldn’t do. Karl wouldn’t lose his rag without a reason, and it was far too coincidental to really be coincidence.

I resolved to call Karl when I got back to the bungalow. There was nothing I could do about it now, only chalk it up as a line of investigation. No one seemed to be about, so I walked straight up to the front door, bold as brass, and pushed the doorbell. I heard it chiming through the house; quick footsteps and the lock being drawn back; and when the door opened I found myself staring into the furious eyes of Zachary Quinto.

 

 


	3. The Third Man

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Sorry to hear the city’s so unpleasant for you. We Angelenos do manage to have ourselves a good time,” I told him. “Although I’m sure a gentleman like yourself wouldn’t have the same idea of fun.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: rough blow job/choking; erectile dysfunction; threat of physical violence; references to domestic violence / emotional and physical abuse.

We stood stock-still, staring at each other until a call from deep within the house disturbed our reverie.

“Zach, darling, who is it?”

A female voice.

As I watched him, Quinto cloaked himself in a new persona. His eyes were wider, his brows somehow less heavy—even his voice, as he called a reply, had a different timbre.

“It’s the reporter, darling,” he called behind him. Gone were the soft consonants and tender vowels I was used to; his accent was formal and clipped. He turned on his heel. “Come,” was the only command he gave, and my feet followed him.

I didn’t get much of a look at the place until we made it to the next room, because I was staring so hard at the back of his head I wonder his hair didn’t catch on fire. His hair was different, too—slicked into discipline with Brylcreem and shining under the overhead chandelier. Was he running around town impersonating an English lord? I had a thousand questions, but I bit them all back.

I didn’t want to chance blowing his cover.

My only other impression of the foyer was that it housed a grand double staircase, trickling down the left and right walls like a gleaming marble waterfall. I followed Quinto underneath it, in fact, into the room beyond. This area was bright and feminine, decorated in shades of cream and pearl-pink.  It suited the occupant, a cool Hitchcock blonde dressed in full-skirted dove gray couture and seated on a silk-covered Georgian sofa. She had an aristocrat’s composure pulled round her like a mink stole.

So much for the bunions and adenoids. I could see anyone getting dizzy over this dame. In the pit of my stomach something twisted, and it wasn’t due to skipping lunch. She came towards me in a cloud of French perfume, a smile lighting up her beautiful face, and I was drawn to her, leaving Quinto in the archway.

“This is Mr. Pine,” Quinto said. He sounded completely foreign to me.

Beauty smiled upon me, and I was dazzled. Belatedly, I pulled off my hat. She said: “How nice to meet you, Mr. Pine. I’m Alice Eve.” No name had ever sounded lovelier, spoken in her modulated English accent.

I coughed out my hellos somehow, but I could feel Quinto behind me radiating nervous energy. Even she noticed it, based on the look she gave him.

“I’ll fetch Benny,” he said abruptly when I turned to look at him, and with that he was gone.

I looked back to the blonde, and tried to play off the tension. “What’s eating him?” I asked with a grin.

“Oh dear,” she said. “I must apologize. Zach—Mr. Quinto, that is, has had a rather trying day. He’s our…” She touched her fingers to her lips and looked away.

“Your what, Mrs. Eve? Or are you a Miss?” I was as confused as all get-out, trying to make sense of the situation, trying to stay ahead of the game. Fat chance.

She was still looking after Quinto with a perturbed expression, but at my question she laughed. “I’m a Lady, actually,” she told me, “but please, call me Alice. America is so charmingly egalitarian; and when in Rome.”

“Alright. Alice.” The name suited her. She had an otherworldly air about her, like someone who might go chasing a rabbit down a dark hole just for kicks. She led me to the sofa but I stayed standing as she sat on the smaller love seat. “And you were saying about Mr. Quinto—”

“You’re damned nosy.” Already on edge, I startled at the interruption. I hadn’t noticed the figure in the darkest corner, hunched in a chair. He had sandy hair and a scowl, and an accent that belonged a few rungs down the English social ladder from Alice. But she smiled at him as he came forward.

“Oh, but that’s his job, Pegg, to be nosy and ask questions. Let him alone. Take his hat and coat, will you?”

He sniffed, but he did it, and strode off with them to stow them in the foyer.

I tried again with Alice while Pegg was out of the room. “So Mr. Quinto is…?”

The answer came from behind me, sudden like the crack of a whip. “Mr. Quinto is a friend of mine. You must be the newspaper fellow.” I turned and came face to face with the man I presumed was Lord Benedict Cumberbatch. He was attractive in a reptilian sort of way, intense and pale, though not washed out. He was like a watercolor except for his hair: a lush red-brown that seemed to contradict his glacial eyes. He sported a whip-thin moustache and his stiff posture made me stand a little taller myself.

I put out my hand, and he took it after giving it a look.

“Christopher Pine. Call me Chris, why dontcha.”

“Lord Cumberbatch. But I suppose I must suggest you call me Benedict, since my dear cousin insists on throwing away all sense of propriety.”

Alice smiled again, but there was an uncertainty to it this time. “Don’t be cross with me, Benny.”

He went to her and dropped a kiss on her radiant blonde head. “Of course I’m not cross with you, dearest. Have you called for drinks yet?”

“No, I—I wasn’t sure how long you would be.” She wouldn’t look at him, but he didn’t seem to notice.

Cumberbatch was a little under my height and thinner. His eerie, pale eyes roamed constantly until they lit on an object or a face, at which point he’d stare, fixated, as though seeking out dangers—or vulnerabilities. He scrutinized me then, and I felt like a dry butterfly pinned to a backboard and ready for cataloging. “Zach, old boy,” he said quietly, and I blinked.

Quinto appeared in a doorway to the right.

“Fix us a round of drinks, there’s a good chap. God knows we’ll be waiting forever if we call for the staff.”

It was a curious thing to see the man I knew as demanding, intense and autocratic reduced to mixing drinks at the bar in the corner. He poured out three highballs of soda and vermouth, colored rich ruby with Campari, and one bourbon on the rocks. Nothing for Pegg, I noticed.

Alice clapped her hands when Quinto served her. “Americanos! How divine. Thank you, Zach.”

Cumberbatch raised an eyebrow at my bourbon. “Good God, Zach. Cocktails, I meant, not hard liquor.”

Quinto hesitated, his arm half-extended towards me. The ice made a tinkling sound against the crystal as his hand shook. I jumped up and grabbed it. “I’m afraid your friend here knows the American weakness, being American himself. We prefer our drinks hard, day and night.”

Quinto hadn’t looked me in the eye since I entered the joint, but he looked at me then, and I saw relief in his face.

“As you wish,” Cumberbatch said, losing interest. “Now, shall we begin?”

I hastily took out my notebook and flicked through it to find my scrawled notes and questions. “How’re you finding the good old U.S. of A. so far, Lord Cu—Benedict?” I made my tone deliberately jocular, and I got nothing but frost back.

“Neither good, nor old. However, since your countrymen have managed to spirit away quite a collection of European antiques, here I find myself. For the time being.”

It took some time to thaw the ice with him, and even then he was never what I’d call toasty warm. The others in the room didn’t help—they were stiff as boards, even Pegg, like they were holding their collective breath. Quinto had situated himself directly behind Alice’s armchair, one hand gripping the back of it like a substitute for her shoulder, the other hand occupied with a cigarette. Beyond him, I could see a shepherdess figurine in a display case, bending her golden head to gaze sweetly at a white lamb. She reminded me of Alice, with her fragile, breakable beauty.

Cumberbatch sat directly opposite me, leaning forward and fixing me with his intense stare once more. I was nervous, and sometimes when I’m nervous I can’t seem to stop up my mouth. I established his genealogy in minute detail before moving on to his preferred collection periods, and his plans for renovations of his ancestral home, Holford Hall. He’d stayed in New York for several months before moving to the west coast—did I have that right? I did. And how long had he been in LA? Half a year or so. And what did he enjoy doing here? Not much, it turned out.

“Sorry to hear the city’s so unpleasant for you. We Angelenos do manage to have ourselves a good time,” I told him. “Although I’m sure a gentleman like yourself wouldn’t have the same idea of fun.”

He put his drink down and flicked a finger. Quinto sprang forward and collected our glasses. While he refilled them, Cumberbatch sat back in his seat and smiled. It was a smile that put a shiver down my spine, and I wished he’d stayed solemn instead. “Indeed?”

Quinto handed me another bourbon, his back to Cumberbatch, and gave me a pleading look. “Oh,” I said. “Well. I’m talking about lower sorts of entertainment. I wouldn’t like to say in front of the lady.”

Cumberbatch took his second Americano. Alice had gone white, white as the walls. Quinto lit another cigarette.

“You should rest before dinner, Alice,” Cumberbatch said.

She smoothed down her skirt. “I’m not tired, Benny.”

“Yes, you are. In fact, you look like you’re getting one of your migraines.”

“I’ll go with you, darling,” Quinto said, and touched her shoulder. She flinched under his fingertips, and twisted her head to look up at him. I could see her pulse flickering in the curve of her throat.

Cumberbatch said, “You’ll do nothing of the sort. Pegg will go with her. That _is_ his job, after all.”

From his corner, Pegg stood up.

Alice turned back and burst out, “But I tell you, Benny—I’m perfectly well, I’m not in the _least_ —”

“All these hysterics,” he said, his voice thin and cutting, “will simply make your headache worse.”

She flushed deeply and stood, nodding at me without looking me in the eye. “Good afternoon, Mr. Pine.” She left the room, both her perfume and Pegg trailing after her.

“My cousin is delicate,” Cumberbatch said. “I trust you won’t do her a disservice in your article.”

“The ladies,” I said, and hesitated. “Well, they do come down with headaches. I doubt my readership would be interested.” I took it from the flicker of Cumberbatch’s eyelids that he approved of my tactic. I had an opportunity then, so I took it. Like Alice had pointed out earlier, no one thinks twice about a reporter being pushy. “What’s Pegg’s story?”

“Mr. Pegg is engaged to attend to Lady Alice’s needs. Zach, won’t you sit down?” Quinto moved slow as the smoke trailing from his Gauloise, but sat himself in Alice’s vacated chair. “I wonder, Mr. Pine,” Cumberbatch continued. “Would you do me the honor of staying to dinner?”

“Why, I—” I didn’t know what to do. Stay, and find out more? I knew what Quinto wanted, which was me out of there, safely stowed in the Chateau, like the porcelain shepherdess in the glass case behind him. That image made up my mind for me. “I’d love to,” I said. “And please call me Chris.”

“Excellent. Chris. I would like you to see more of my collection.”

“And I surely would love to see it, Benedict.” _All pals here_ , my grin said, and it didn’t falter under his contemplative, pallid gaze. “Say, though—I’ve been here about an hour, and I had a cab booked to pick me up again. He’s probably here by now.”

“Zach will manage it,” Cumberbatch said. Quinto rose, crushed out his cigarette, and left the room. In a moment, I faintly heard the front door open and close. The Englishman continued: “This house was the least ghastly I saw in the neighborhood. There’s one further down the hill I’m told was designed by Frank Lloyd Wright, but it looks like nothing more than a concrete block to me. Your American architects have a very different sensibility to ours.”

“Oh, well; they’re not all Frank Lloyd Wrights. I prefer Craig Ellwood, myself,” I said.

“Quite.” Cumberbatch looked like he didn’t know who Ellwood was, and wasn’t going to admit to it. Score one for Yankee Doodle, I thought.

So I had the grand tour, wandering around the bottom floor of the mansion with Lord Cumberbatch, hearing his opinions about late eighteenth century craftsmen and why one portrait of a horse-faced broad was better than another. He’d shipped over part of his collection with him from the mother country when he’d decided to come to the States.  Couldn’t bear the idea of all the modernity and crassness, he said, and a man has to be comfortable where he lives. I wondered why he’d come Stateside at all if he hated it so much, but I couldn’t disagree with his reasoning. I didn’t know what was going to happen between Quinto and me once this night was over, but I sure didn’t fancy moving back into a shoebox.

I didn’t see another soul during the tour, and we ended up back in the grand foyer at the bottom of the staircase. It was dark outside. Someone had switched on the chandelier, and it threw muted light into all corners of the room.

“You mentioned before—entertainments,” Cumberbatch said, the word over-pronounced, each “t” ringing out like silverware tapping on a champagne flute.

We were getting to it at last, the real reason he’d asked me to stay. “Yes?”

“One does, when one travels, hope to better understand the ways of the natives.”

I had a choice: I could string him out, make him state it plainly; or I could ingratiate myself and go easy on him. I decided on the latter. “I’d be happy to show you around town, Benedict.”

“Good man.” He reached out for my arm, but his hand hovered an inch away from it, as though he couldn’t bear to touch me. I moved, and my arm brushed against his palm. He pulled it back quickly like I’d zinged him, and gestured up the staircase. “You can dress for dinner in one of the rooms upstairs.”

“I’m afraid I don’t have—”

“You’re about Zach’s size. I’ll ask him to bring you something.”

I kept my nerve and mounted the staircase on the left side. It felt imposing and mountainous as I trawled upward, very aware of Cumberbatch behind me as I walked. The bannister and wainscoting on either side were made of a dark, almost black wood, but the stairs themselves were cream-colored marble. Our steps echoed through the foyer and the back of my neck prickled. At the top I paused on the landing and looked over. “Hell of a drop,” I said with a forced laugh. “Even just a tumble down the stairs would break a man’s neck, I bet.”

“Indeed,” the Englishman said, and then, “This way.”

I let myself be directed to a room. It was massive, about the same size as my entire bungalow. A preposterous four-poster hulked against the wall, big enough to bed a whole family.  A matching wardrobe took up about a third of another wall, and three ceiling-to floor windows looked out over the back of the property.  I could have seen for miles if not for the encroaching dark.

Cumberbatch left me, and I made my ablutions and waited, lit up with nerves. Presently there was a knock, and Quinto came in without waiting for my say-so.  He avoided looking at me as he hung up a shirt and dinner jacket in the ugly wardrobe. No doubt he would’ve left the room in silence too, if I hadn’t opened my mouth.

“Hey,” I said, and that one word stopped him in his tracks at the door, his back to me. He looked down and to the side. I could see him only in quarter-profile. “I could use some help getting dressed. Is that your job?”

He remained motionless for a moment before he quietly shut the door, and turned to look at me. I quavered under his glare. Those brows were back in force, and his body was taut. This was the Quinto I knew, not the mute _objet d’art_ gliding here and there at Lord Cumberbatch’s beck and call. I’d been angry about his lies and curious as to why he’d told them, but Quinto—Quinto was enraged.

“So you couldn’t leave it alone,” he hissed, and he was on me before I knew it, bunching up my shirt-collar in his fist and pushing me back over the dresser. It made it hard to breathe.

“Let me explain,” I wheezed. “Come on, Quinto, don’t hit me; it’ll only make for awkward questions if I’m bleeding all over the dinner table.”

He let me go and stepped back an inch or two. “You reckless little fool. You don’t even _know_ what a fool you are, how much danger you’re putting us in by being here.”

There it was again, that ambiguous pronoun.  I took off my tie and unbuttoned my collar to give myself room to breathe. “When you say _us_ , who exactly do you mean?”

“I mean you and me. And…”

“And Alice?”

Quinto gave a great sigh and sat on the end of the bed. “And Alice. I’m worried about her.”

I’d noticed it too, that subtle strangeness about her. It was as though she were wavering on the edge of a great wall, trying to decide which way to fall to find safety, and terrified of a plunge into nothingness instead.

“What’s going on here, Quinto? None of it makes sense to me.”

“Why, we’ve been acquired, Alice and I, just like one of Benny’s antiques. We’re part of his collection. The _pièces de résistance_ , in fact.”

We didn’t have long—three quarters of an hour, maybe, before dinner would be served and we’d be expected to make an appearance downstairs. So I sat next to him on the foot of the bed, and he told me as fast as he could, brushing over details, leaving out facts and having to go back to retell parts. In the end I had his story straight, and it went something like this.

Quinto told me he’d led a quiet childhood, born to a wealthy Philadelphian family who lost everything in the Black Tuesday crash. They recovered, although they’d never been the same afterwards and his father had died before the war started. It was during the war Quinto met Cumberbatch, after they were both injured. They first set eyes on each other in a mobile hospital and had become friendly, then more than friends. “The desperation of the time, you know,” he said. “In other circumstances, perhaps we would never have hit it off. Of course, in other circumstances we never would have met.”

I pressed his hand when he bit his lip, like it was all too much for him.

“I went back to England with him,” he continued. “I was overcome by how elegant he was, how wealthy, how powerful—and _he_ wanted _me_. It was flattering, do you see? And he was infatuated with me, had to have me. Keep me. Display me, even. He would have parties for his degenerate friends, and dress me—show me off—he liked to dangle me in front of others and then snatch me away.”

I tried to picture it, this proud, aloof fellow allowing himself to be treated that way. “You shoulda clocked him the first time he tried it,” I said. “Making you perform like—like—like I don’t know what.” I knew exactly what, but I didn’t plan on saying it. It was hard enough for him to tell me his humiliation without me remarking on it.

But he shook his head at my revulsion. “It wasn’t so bad, not then. There was no pain, at least, and he lavished me with everything money could buy. But I tired of it before he’d tired of me. When I told him I needed my freedom, that was when things changed. He can’t bear the thought of anyone or anything being out of his control, not once he’s declared his ownership. He’s spent hundreds of thousands on art, heirlooms, jewelry—on me, and on Alice. He’s left nothing but ruined lives behind him.”

Why couldn’t he just leave, I asked; go back to Philly, or stay here in LA, but either way, leave Cumberbatch?  He gave two reasons. One was the money, and I couldn’t hold that against him. I felt the pull of it myself when I thought about the ease and comfort it had brought over the last month. His other reason wasn’t so ignoble: he was able to send help home to his mother, who was unwell and in need of care. I could relate to that, and Quinto had previously been encouraging when I’d mentioned to him that I wanted to help out my old Ma.

“And then,” he sighed, “there’s Alice. She’s been his ward since her parents’ death in the Blitz. And although she’s a grown woman now, he’s got her tied to him—financially, socially. He’s molded her and he’s taken his time about it, turning her into a shell of the person she once was. I’m terribly afraid for her, I don’t mind telling you. Afraid for her mental state. She’s frayed, and it won’t take much for her to snap. Then he’ll be able to store her away, and never have to give her up.”

And so they were both flies caught in the web.

“Why’d you lie to me?” I asked curiously, once I’d ruminated over it.

He fiddled with his cuff. “What do you mean?”

“About having a wife, money of your own?”

“I never said that.”

I let it pass. “You called each other _darling_.” He gave me a quizzical look, so I added, “When I arrived, you and Alice. _Darling_ this and _darling_ that. You seem fond of each other.”

“Why, yes. We _are_ fond of each other. It helps, actually, to feel kinship with my fellow prisoner. But she’s like a sister to me, if that’s what has you worried.”

I twisted my mouth. I didn’t want him thinking me jealous. “The bungalow, the things you’ve given me—where does that money come from?”

He spread his hands. “From him. I have an allowance. Benny pays me generously, and I pay you.”

“Also generously,” I noted.

“We may have different definitions,” he said sardonically. “In any case, if you’d rather not take it—”

“Wait just a minute, now. No one said anything about things changing between us. But can’t you squirrel some of that dough away? Can’t we make room for Alice at the Chateau?” I didn’t want to. I didn’t want to curtail our lovemaking or share my bungalow— _my_ bungalow—with anyone else, but the situation seemed dire.

He gave a pained, faintly incredulous smile. “I suppose when one lives a simple sort of life, one becomes accustomed to it. But I certainly couldn’t ask Alice to live at the Chateau, in a two bedroom bungalow. Besides, Pegg would never agree.”

I didn’t see what Pegg had to do with anything, but I was struck with an idea. “But look here,” I said, “I can help you. I can help _both_ of you. I can play the horses.” Johnny’s tips were still showing up occasionally, although there were few real outsiders coming home these days.

“Yes, I thought about the horses too. I wondered if it might be a way out. But it’s a fool’s dream, isn’t it? You might make your rent on the ponies, but you certainly haven’t made a fortune.”  I frowned. It was true, but it still cut. Quinto went on, “Besides, Benny would come after us, and no matter how much we might make here and there, he will _always_ have more resources. In any case, Alice deserves so much more. She’s kind and good and beautiful; she has a title. She could marry well, if only Benny would let her. You don’t know the things he’s done to her. To me.” He dropped his head into his hand. “He—he makes her watch sometimes.”

I felt a horrible thrill run through me at the idea. “What kind of things?”

But he just shook his head. “If only he would get sick and die. He’s even written me into his will. Of course, it’s another ploy to keep me with him—the longer I stay, the more I get. He’s left me this house, and his New York digs. Said he didn’t want Alice lumbered with American property. So you see, if he died…But he won’t die. He’s healthy as a horse.”

I leaned into him. “I shouldn’t’ve made that crack before, asking you to dress me. It was a sour thing to say.” I slid my fingers through his hair, and pulled his tired mouth to mine.

Against my lips, he murmured, “You were right, what you said that day. I do give a damn about you.”

He pulled open his tie and started to unbutton his shirt, but I grabbed his hands. “We don’t have time.”

“I know,” he said, getting a hand free and pulling at my clothes. “I know.”

“The door is unlocked.”

“I don’t care.”

“If he finds us, he’ll punish you. I can’t have that on my conscience.”

He froze for a moment, and then retreated right off the bed to stand by the wardrobe, refastening his shirt collar. I felt lousy for reminding him of the consequences. It occurred to me the fellow was only trying to assert himself, shore up a little power and control where he could, and here I was turning him down. Well, I was feeling more charitable having heard his backstory.

“Quinto,” I said. “Hey, would you—Quinto, would you look at me?” He wouldn’t, so I went to him and sidled in close. He was never one for sweet-talking before he jumped me all those times in the bungalow, so I followed suit and slid an arm around his waist. “Aw, come on. Kiss me,” I breathed, and rubbed my nose against his cheek.

He was trying to stay himself, to hold off, but when I cleaved my body to his I could feel him solid against my thigh. I let out a moan, and that’s what lit the fuse. He pushed me back against the wardrobe door, kissing me violently, sucking at my mouth until I went limp and pliable, the way he liked me.

In fact, I realized, I was limp all over, never mind that I was breathing as heavy as he was and felt just as enthusiastic. To disguise the problem, I dropped to my knees.

“Like this,” I urged. “Not so messy.”

He had no arguments. On the contrary, he was impatient to get in my mouth and yanked at a tuft of my hair to make me open wider. He kept his fingers wrapped up tight in my hair, pulling until he forced water from my eyes, and drove in deep to make me gag. My splutters and coughs only encouraged him, and I grabbed him close just as often as I tried to pull away. Not so messy, I’d said, yet there I was slobbering all over his pants and tears soaking into my collar. Well, I was getting used to being wrong about things.

He was rough on me, but I wanted him like that. _Preferred_ him like that, not the submissive servant he’d transformed into under Cumberbatch’s rule. But I thought I’d suffocate right at the end, when he got himself full down my throat and pushed my nose up hard against his belly. He gushed into me ’til I felt I was drowning, but the satisfaction I heard in his long sigh was fair compensation.

When he let me go I fell back on my heels, hacking and clearing my throat. He leaned over me, one hand on the wardrobe, affection in his half-smile. “Tidy me away,” he said softly, so I kissed the tip of his spent cock and tucked him neatly back in his trousers.

I looked up at his face. “Why me? What made you decide I was worth taking the chance of running around on him?”

He smirked, and petted me on the cheek—more of a slap, really. “That pretty face of yours, Pine. Movie stars find it irresistible and so do I. Come on, now.” He pulled me upright. For a moment I worried he’d try to return the favor, but I needn’t have. He licked the dregs of his spunk out of my mouth, and then gave me a little shove. “Go on, then. Get dressed. I shall have to change, too.” He tutted, looking down at the wet mess I’d made of his dress pants. “You’ll hear a gong in ten minutes or so, and that will be your cue to come downstairs.” With that, he left me.

I did as he asked: clothed myself and made my way back downstairs when the dinner gong sounded. They were waiting for me: Lord Cumberbatch, Alice and Quinto. Alice, dressed in lavender chiffon and white satin gloves, looked troubled at the sight of me.

“Oh,” she said, and then, at my raised eyebrow, “Benny didn’t tell me you were staying for dinner.” She squeezed my hand. She had a strong, almost desperate grip. Quinto was a stranger again, avoiding my eyes.

“Shall we?” Cumberbatch said, and grasped Alice by the elbow to guide her into the dining room. It was not quite so formal as I’d expected—the table, though still too large for our group, did not preclude conversation. The room was sprinkled with Cumberbatch’s possessions: portraits along the walls of long-dead nobles and peers, the occasional archbishop. Over the center of the table hung a crystal chandelier glowing with a dim electric light. Heavy silver candelabras on the side tables against the walls burned enough candles to make the room warm and stuffy.

I was seated on my own side of the table, opposite Alice. Cumberbatch took the head, of course, and Quinto sat at the foot. Pegg was nowhere to be found, but we were attended by staff: both young men, beautiful and silent, though I could have sworn the darker-haired of them sent a smirk my way. One served the food, the other the wine, and what a feast it was. Six courses, and the finest cuisine you could imagine. I had never eaten anything like it. Mousses and scalloped potatoes and even the vegetables in the salad sculpted to look like blooming flowers. Some things I didn’t even know what to call them, but I didn’t want to sound a chump and ask.

“You have some cook,” I said, when the last course was served. The conversation had been dominated by Cumberbatch so far, and mostly concerned his efforts to catalog the provenance of a Gainsborough landscape. “Some damned fine cook. Oh, excuse my language.”

Alice, for the first time that evening, smiled.

I expected Cumberbatch to turn chilly again, but he took it in his stride. “The house chef was trained at Le Cordon Bleu. He is adequate; he’s certainly the best I’ve found in America. I brought him across from New York.”

“Well, he’s the best I ever came across. Not that I’ve come across many. I used to eat at Schwab’s most of the time, or—” There was a clatter from the end of the table. Quinto had dropped his pastry fork on to the china plate.

“I beg your pardon,” he said quietly. “How clumsy of me.”

“—or anywhere cheap,” I finished. He’d been quite right; although I wasn’t such a turkey as to say something about Chateau Marmont, Cumberbatch now knew where he might find me some lunchtimes, sitting pretty at the counter at Schwab’s.

“Do you prefer port or cognac as your _digestif_?” Cumberbatch asked me, but before I could answer, Alice stood up.

“Gentlemen, I shall withdraw. Good evening,” she said, and left the room without another word. A snifter appeared before me.

I’d drunk a lot that night, French burgundy on top of the bourbon, and I could feel my face was flushed. But I took the cognac, and sniffed at it like Cumberbatch was doing. Quinto dismissed the servants and then moved down the table to sit opposite me. He tossed his drink back in one gulp.

“Really, Zach, there’s no need to be vulgar,” Cumberbatch told him.

But Quinto just grinned. “Come on, Benny. You like me vulgar at times.”

I started talking loudly about the meal again, until Quinto broke in.

“Mr. Pine, I believe you agreed to take us out on the town some time. Show us the _interesting_ parts of the city. Benny said you’d know where they were.”

Cumberbatch was as drunk as I was, I realized then, because he started giggling. It was an unpleasant sound, high and humorless. “You did say you would, you know,” he said to me. “And we’re not wrong about you, are we? You’re queer.”

I was actually shocked. It made both of them laugh uproariously. “We don’t usually lay it out so plain this side of the Atlantic,” I said, when they’d subsided. “Not often, anyway. I never expected to hear that kind of talk in a formal dining room after a six-course dinner. But yes, I’m of that inclination.”

“And of the other, also,” Cumberbatch said. He laid speculative eyes on me. “You are not, I think, someone who would object to female company?”

“Well…no,” I said.

“My cousin is very beautiful.”

“Why, yes. Yes, she is, but I don’t—that is, I wouldn’t—”

It got them laughing again, but Quinto was more grim this time, giving me a warning glance. I’d had just about enough of this game, and my head was pounding. I felt ill in the gut and I longed for my bed.

I stayed another half hour, until the tension in the room was more than I could bear. I liked _my_ Quinto; not this impish creature who talked in a fractured accent that sounded halfway between Washington Square and Belgravia, and ended up draped around the back of Cumberbatch’s chair after he refilled our drinks from the side bar. He held Cumberbatch’s glass to his lips for him to drink, nursemaid and temptation in one. It made me want to spill my stomach all over the table, get rid of that fine meal and everything else in my belly.

“You must stay the night,” the Englishman insisted.

I shook my head at once. “Oh, no. I’ve imposed on you well beyond politeness.”

“Then come back tomorrow. Surely you have more questions to ask me. Why, we haven’t even touched on my Wedgwood collection.”

“Can’t do it; sorry. I have a meeting I can’t miss.”

Cumberbatch gave me a bullish, obstinate glower. “Of course you can come back. Tell him, Zach. Convince him.”

Quinto raised his eyebrows. “Good God, it’s not up to me, Benny. The man has a meeting he can’t miss. You can’t expect him to turn his life upside down for you just because you’ve taken a liking to him.”

The Englishman turned his head to stare at Quinto. I couldn’t see, exactly, the look he gave. “Convince him,” Cumberbatch said softly, and the hairs on the back of my neck stood up.

“Alright, then,” I said hurriedly, and gave a wide fake grin. “You’ve twisted my arm. Wasn’t looking forward to that meeting anyways. I’ll come see you tomorrow.”

Cumberbatch’s smile did nothing to reassure me. “Perhaps we shall settle at the pool,” he said. “I fancy a swim.”

Quinto said blandly: “You burn in the sun, Benny.” He avoided Cumberbatch’s belligerent glare by heading back to the bar to pour us each another brandy.

Cumberbatch returned his attention to me. “You’ll stay tomorrow night,” he said. Behind him, Quinto gave me a nod.

“Well, sure, Benny, sure I will,” I said. “Tomorrow night.” I would be able to come up with some excuse, I told myself. I needn’t come back at all, but I had to protect Quinto for the time being.

Not long after Quinto served him his drink, Cumberbatch’s speech became slurred, and he didn’t look long for consciousness. I had to reiterate my promise to come back tomorrow several times, until I was on the edge of exasperated.

“Benny’s just about done for the night,” Quinto said, and smirked.

“How dare you…” Cumberbatch snarled, but trailed off. He put his head down, resting on his crossed arms, and his breath changed almost immediately to deep, gasping wheezes.

“Down for the count,” Quinto said with satisfaction.

“How much did he drink?” I asked. I admit I felt a deviant sense of accomplishment in the fact that I could outdrink Cumberbatch. I’d been working on that talent since I was thirteen, and it seemed like my moment to shine.

Quinto leaned back in his chair opposite me, his attention solely on me. I felt my head spin under the intensity of his eyes. “I’ve no idea,” he replied. “Nor much interest.”

I pushed back my chair from the table. “Well, thanks for the feed. I’ll be off. Bid adieu to His Snored-ship from me whenever he wakes up, won’t you?”

“You’re leaving?”

“I am. And I’ll call in with some excuse for tomorrow.”

Quinto frowned. “I say, you’d better not. Benny has a cunning memory for that kind of thing, and if you don’t do as he says—”

I don’t know if it was his affected accent that irritated me, or the rattles and nose-whistles coming from the man between us, but all of a sudden I just wanted out of it all. I thought longingly of the peace and quiet of my bungalow, so unashamedly American and brash. “Goddammit, Quinto, I don’t like this. Why’s he so interested in me?”

He hesitated, and then said: “I can see you want to go. Won’t you at least help me get Benny up to bed before you do?”

“Don’t you have staff to help with that sort of thing?”

“I don’t want to humiliate him like that.”

“Oh,” I said. “ _That’s_ beyond the pale, is it? You must have quite the sliding scale. All the way from keeping a lover on the low end to accommodating a drunkard on the other.”

He opened his eyes wide. “There’s no need to be rude about it. You drink an awful lot yourself, you know. And hush up, will you? He might hear.”

“He’s out like a light,” I said, but he had a point. “And, well, I’m sorry. I guess that _was_ below the belt.”

Quinto pulled at the Englishman. “Benny. _Benny_.” He looked up at me. “It’s no use. We’ll have to take him up.”

I had to agree. I was torn between pity for Quinto and my own desire to get away, but I couldn’t let him struggle up that grand staircase dragging the aristocrat with him. It was too damned dangerous.

Once we got to the corridor that branched off to my room, I let my side of Cumberbatch go. Quinto propped him against the wall. “What is it?” he asked.

“You’ve got him secure,” I said. “I’ll change and go.” I turned away before he could give me another hangdog look. I probably would have turned back if he’d called my name, but he didn’t.

I changed clothes in the guest bedroom and padded quietly back down to the foyer. My head had cleared up by this time, and I planned to call for a taxi cab from the telephone and wait outside for it. With any luck, I thought, I could avoid the other lost souls on this damned sinking ship.

I was nearly at the front door when Alice appeared in the arch under the staircase.

“Christopher, may I speak with you?”

God, would I never be free of these people? I asked myself. But pity made me shake off my nausea, and I went into the drawing room with her. We sat on one of the innumerable sofas, and she gave me a glass of straight soda. I downed it gratefully.

“I can see you want to get out of here. I don’t blame you,” she said.

It wasn’t hard to love someone like Alice. She’d already won me over, truth be told. She could make a man feel like the center of the universe when she looked at you. I found myself staring at her curious eyes: one green, one blue. She saw me notice them and blushed a little. “My affliction,” she said, rolling those odd eyes to let me know it was a joke. “Benny tells me they make me unique.”

“Is that why he’s made you part of his collection?” She got real quiet. I wiped the sweat from my face and tried to sit up instead of loll like a boozer. I could bet she’d seen her fill of that behavior. “I’m sorry, that was—”

“It was the truth,” she said softly. “Benny is a collector by nature, and I am simply another work of art to him. If it were only that, it wouldn’t be so bad. But it’s the other part of his nature, the Mr. Hyde part of him—” She shuddered.

“You’ve got to get out,” I told her. “I’ll help. We’ll find a way.”

“There _is_ no way,” she stiff-upper-lipped me, “and that is what I wanted to tell you. Benny could buy and sell your police force twice over, not to mention hire every private detective in the city. He would find us, and he would bring us back, and he would—he would—”

There it was again, that shiver down my backbone, the horrified curiosity about exactly what this man was capable of doing.

“I won’t let him,” I told her obstinately. “This is _my_ city. I can hide you away. I’ve got contacts too, see? I know people who can help.”

Her mismatched eyes were full of defeat. “You’re very kind, Christopher. But you don’t know me at all; I can’t ask you to risk yourself like that. Besides, I’m afraid things have gone much too far. Only death can help us now.”

“Don’t talk like that,” said a gruff voice from the corner, and I jumped. It was Pegg, skulking away in the shadows. How was it that I never noticed the man?

“Alright, Pegg,” she said. “I won’t talk like that. But you know it’s true.”

“Go up to bed,” he said, and she nodded.

“Yes; I’m tired. I do believe I’m getting a migraine after all. Good evening, Christopher. It’s been lovely to meet you, but please never come back. You mustn’t let yourself be collected.” She didn’t wait for my response, and she didn’t look back as she left.

Pegg wandered over to me and offered me his pouch of tobacco. I declined. “And you? What’s your story?” I demanded.

He took a pipe from his pocket, stuffed it and lit it before replying. “I’m sure Lord Cumberbatch told you. I’m here to attend to Lady Alice’s needs. Now what’s _your_ story, my lad—a reporter? I’ll eat my hat if _that’s_ really so.”

He was more astute than his boss. “I’m just a man looking to get home,” I told him.

“Well, I’ll call you a cab in that case. But no need to let your feet stall; you can wait outside.” He walked me to the door as though he expected me to pull a portrait off the wall and smuggle it home under my shirt. “You’ll excuse me saying so, Mr. Pine, but you’d do well to watch what you say in your cups,” he told me, as I set off down the front steps. “If you want to play the white knight, that’s your lookout, but I won’t have you getting her Ladyship’s hopes up.”

The cab came soon enough, so at least Pegg had done that much for me. As it drove me away I twisted to look at the mansion again. The car’s red taillights flashed and wandered over the portico like flames, and it seemed fitting. That house was a hell for those who lived in it, and I wanted, desperately, to save them.

Yet it was also a relief to me to think I could go back to my bungalow, to the cozy rooms and the silence. Maybe I’d write some more.

Maybe I’d have a nightcap.

There were only so many demons I could deal with in one night, after all.


	4. Murder, My Sweet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “God forgive me,” I sighed.
> 
> “Us,” he corrected me, but it seemed to me there wouldn’t be enough forgiveness for the both of us, not for something so wicked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Bullying, Manipulation, Rimming, Conspiracy to murder.

I woke late the next day, late enough that I had no time to think about the train that was raging down the tracks towards me. I showered, shaved, and pulled myself into a fit state before I could worry myself out of going back. If I was to save Quinto, save Alice, I needed all my bravery, and the courage muscle wasn’t one I’d exercised in a long time. While I worked it up from its atrophied state, I relied on distraction and habit to get me back to the mansion. At the last minute I decided a little Dutch courage was better than no courage at all, and slugged down a few bourbons before I called a cab.  

A winsome, sultry young man opened the mansion door at my ring. I recognized him from the previous evening: he’d been one of the footmen at dinner. His angular face belonged in a Botticelli portrait. His long hair was tied at the nape of his neck with a black velvet ribbon, and he wore an ivory Mandarin-collared shirt and black pants. Above the line of the collar, a faint yellow discoloration showed on one side of his neck.

“Good afternoon, Mr. Pine,” he murmured, and told me I was expected poolside immediately on my arrival. He led me under the grand staircase arch into the parlor, and across to the French doors. “This path leads to the pool area,” he said, and gave a little bow of the head.

“I don’t believe we’ve met properly,” I said, as he receded from me.

“My name is Miles, sir.”

“You worked here long?”

“I beg your pardon, sir, but you must excuse me. The gentlemen are at the pool, as I said.” He turned again and scurried off.

I strolled down in the general direction and met no one along the way. The grounds were massive and wild, stretching well into the hills beyond, but closer to the house they were better manicured. I could see a pool house roof peeking over the swell of the grounds, and as I came up the rise of the path, I saw the pool itself, long and inviting, the azure water rivaling the blue of the sky.

The two of them were sunbathing on lounging chairs, slathered up in oil. Cumberbatch was lobster-like, even at a distance. Zach, on the other hand, was bronzing nicely.

I gave a shout, and Zach sat up at once, and waved. Cumberbatch barely acknowledged me, lifting a hand in a half-hearted way before stretching an arm behind his head.

“Good afternoon,” Zach said, when I reached them. “Fancy a tipple?”

“Good afternoon,” I said back, the words stiff on my tongue. It was so different from his usual _Hello, friend_ , that it was disconcerting. “Sure, I’ll take a drink.”

“Benny?”

“It’s rather early, don’t you think?” Cumberbatch said, and dipped his sunglasses down his nose to look at me.

I ignored the dig. “I had a brief chat with your—what is he, your houseboy? Miles, he said his name was. Quite an eyeful, eh?” I caught the look Cumberbatch sent past my shoulder, but by the time I swiveled to see Quinto’s reaction, he had turned back to the wet bar and busied himself with the ice tongs. “Did you hire him here, or did you take him from New York?”

Zach said over his shoulder, “Benny hired him here. Didn’t you, Benny?”

“Did I?”

“Why, of course you did. Don’t you remember, the agency sent him over just a week or two back.”

“The agency,” Cumberbatch echoed, and laughed. “Of course.” He looked at me and continued, “You may change in the pool house. Plenty of swimming trunks on offer.”

I took the bourbon Quinto pushed into my hand as I replied, “Think I’ll sit this one out.” Cumberbatch said nothing, but Quinto widened his eyes at me. “On second thoughts,” I said, “I believe I _will_ change.” I downed my drink, and headed off to the pool house.

There was another drink waiting for me when I emerged in bright blue trunks, and Quinto sat me down on one of the lounging chairs before he made with the small talk, asking superficial questions about my writing, and easing me into a sweet glaze of inebriation as warm as the sunshine.

Cumberbatch joined in the drinking soon enough, though he remained mostly silent through my sermon on themes in American literature, provoked by my nerves and bourbon. Quinto went over to the bar to fix us yet another round when I realized he’d not had a drop himself.

“But if I can just get the right phrase to close out that fourth chapter,” I was saying, my mind and eyes on Quinto, when the Englishman interrupted.

“My God, haven’t we had enough of this chatter for today? I thought you were here to interview _me_.”

“My apologies, Benny,” I said, and gave a grin that showed more teeth than felt natural. I don’t know how he felt about me addressing him so informally. Every time the nickname passed my lips he gave a little twitch, but I never could quite tell if it was irritation or pleasure. I was taking liberties, but the man made my skin crawl. If I could get under his, I would take my chance.

He took off his sunglasses and regarded me. “You are proud of your work.”

It was not a question, but I treated it as one. “Sure I am. Don’t you think it’s something to be proud of?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he said.

“Benny doesn’t like fiction,” Quinto called over. “He doesn’t see the point.”

“What does that mean?” I asked, and then looked at Cumberbatch. His skin looked pink and plump, like a roasting chicken. “What does that mean, Benny? Does there have to be a point to everything? Can’t something just be a bit of fun?”

Quinto materialized between us with our drinks and a warning glance at me. I crashed my glass into Cumberbatch’s and said, “Here’s to crime!” before tossing it back. I felt giddy that day; daring.

“Is that your chief end in life?” he asked me, taking a sip of whisky. “To have fun?”

“I know you Englishmen are straitlaced, but maybe there’s something your former colonies can teach you. Enjoy yourself. Have a chuckle. Indulge.”

I saw his fingers contract around the glass. Quinto was hovering nearby and I felt the backs of my ears tickling, like he was trying to tell me something as hard as he could without words.

“I believe I’ve been very indulgent,” Cumberbatch said, and stood up. “Have I not, Zach?”

He said quickly: “Oh, yes. Yes, Benny. Very indulgent.”

I remembered, too late, that it was Quinto who would bear the brunt of any pique I raised in the Englishman. When would I learn to keep my mouth shut? I did the only thing I could think of that might draw Cumberbatch’s attention away from Quinto, maybe make him forgive whatever imagined slight had occurred. I set my drink down and stood as well, moving into the space between the two men so Lord Cumberbatch’s cold blue glare was directed at me instead.

I made myself lay a hand on his hipbone. “You need to indulge _yourself_ , Benny.  That’s what I mean. You deserve some fun.” I paused, and slid my hand lower, under the waistband of his trunks. “Maybe we could have some fun together.”

One minute I was standing there making a poor attempt at seducing Cumberbatch, and the next I was taking in a lungful of chlorinated water. The world had turned wet and blue. It took me a moment to get my bearings, but when I did I resurfaced, spluttering.

The two of them were laughing at me so hard they could barely stand up.

“What’s the big idea?” I coughed, and Quinto pulled himself together enough to respond.

“I thought maybe you should cool off a little. Oh, you should have seen your face. You were so surprised. Wasn’t he surprised, Benny?”

“Terrified.” I’d never imagined Cumberbatch could be so overtaken with emotion, grinning so hard his face might’ve split in two. “You looked like you were going to scream bloody murder just before you hit the water.”

He was laughing so much at his own remark he missed the dark look I gave him. Quinto caught it, though, and took a dive into the pool. He surfaced near me and tossed his head to get his wet hair out of his eyes. Still smirking, he pulled me close as if to kiss me, but dunked me instead, holding me under until I started struggling. He let me up only to dunk me again, like he couldn’t bear for me to get any air he wasn’t directly providing.

“Quit it,” I snarled, when I got away from him. We’d floated further down the pool. I couldn’t quite touch the bottom with my toes. He laid his hands on my waist and we bobbed together.

“Don’t ever do that again,” he murmured, the same silly grin still plastered on his mug. His eyes were hard.

“I was trying to help you.”

“Don’t ever touch him like that. _Capisce_?”

“You’re as crazy as he is. Let go.” I swam my way to the steps at the other end and sat on them to catch my breath. Quinto swam slowly after me. Cumberbatch had lain back on his lounger again, one hand behind his head and the other on his fuchsia chest. His eyes were still on us, but as I watched, he blinked like a sunning lizard might: slower and slower, before closing for good.

Quinto pulled himself out of the pool and walked back to the loungers, where he stood over the Englishman with his hands on his hips. “He’s asleep,” he said to me when I came up behind me. “Help me move this sunshade, will you?”

“He can burn for all I care,” I muttered.

“I’d rather he didn’t,” Quinto said lightly. “Last time he caught a sunburn he found very creative ways to show me how painful it felt to him.”

I helped him move the enormous pool umbrella until Cumberbatch was shaded. We walked off to the bar to talk, and I tried not to let the noise the slumbering aristocrat was making remind me of death rattle I’d heard my father make. “It was a mistake, my coming here,” I whispered. “I can’t stand to see you like this, and I don’t understand why you put up with it. It _can’t_ be worth it to you, the money. You can’t be willing to put up with this just for the sake of a nice shirt now and then, or a goddamn vicuna coat.”

Quinto lit a cigarette before replying. “Money is very important. You of all people should know that.”

“That’s a low blow.”

“It wasn’t meant as a slight. You used to drink at Chateau Marmont even though you couldn’t afford it, so I thought you’d understand. But perhaps you don’t.” He wandered to the poolside again and stared at the waters. “Do you know, I think this water might be the same shade as your eyes.”

“The hell with my eyes,” I snapped, and grabbed him by the shoulders to shake him. “And the hell with him, for whatever hold he has on you, and—and the hell with _you_ for not telling me straight out what it is. Is he blackmailing you?”

“Let it go, will you? I don’t want to discuss this with Benny sleeping right there.”

“No fear of him waking, though, after _you_ make him a drink. Is there?”

His smile dropped. “Ah,” he said. “So you’ve noticed that.”

“A toff like him doesn’t snore at the dinner table, no matter how much he’s sunk. And now he’s sleeping like the dead after three whiskies? No, sir, that’s not natural. Didn’t take much to work out you like to drug him.”

“Hm.” He lit up another Gauloise as though he’d forgotten the one he just smoked. “He’s a terrible insomniac, you know, if I don’t. Wanders all over the house in the dark because he can’t sleep. It’s downright dangerous.”

“Oh, yes. I’m sure you’re very concerned about his welfare. Was he in danger of drowning this afternoon?”

“For God’s sake, you could see he was working himself up to _something_. I was protecting you. In any case, you’d better hightail it. One never knows when pharmaceutical relief may fail us.”

Cumberbatch was not the one who’d shoved me into the water, I could have pointed out, but I didn’t bother. “I hoped to see Alice again,” I said instead, and Quinto slid me a look from eyes half-closed against the smoke spuming from his lips.

“Alice, eh? Better if you’d keep your distance from her. Benny wouldn’t like it.”

“Nevertheless.”

“She’s sequestered. Has a migraine.” In his chair at the head of the pool, Cumberbatch choked for a moment, before he resumed his labored breathing. Quinto flicked his cigarette in a balletic arc into the pool. As the sizzle sounded, he pulled me in to kiss. His mouth was acrid with nicotine, but it may as well have been dripping with honey to me. Kissing there in broad daylight, his keeper only a few feet away from us—it was exciting to me, even though I felt like a dog about it.

He cupped me over my swim shorts, and I couldn’t help pushing into his hand.

“Well, well, well,” he said. “Isn’t this an occurrence?”

I flushed. The last few times we’d been together, I’d had some troubles downstairs. It was the drink and I knew that, so I hadn’t cut up over it, and things had come right in the end. Quinto, if anything, seemed to take a great interest in my limp state. Yet here I was, alert and firm in the most awkward circumstances.

“Leave it, damn it,” I muttered into his neck. “Not with _him_ over there.”

“But I believe you enjoy the thought of it. Is that what you’d like, hm? Shall I bring you off on the lounge chair, right next to him?”

I swallowed hard and pushed him away. Maybe he was joking. Maybe he was testing me. I only knew that I wouldn’t do it. “I would never— _could_ never—not when I think about what he might do to you. If he woke up—” I couldn’t go on, my throat closed up on me and I had to stop. My excitement had died along with my voice.

He gave me a curious look. “Why, I believe you really mean it.”

“Of course I mean it! My God, do you think I want you hurt over _me?_ ”

His wonder was, perhaps, the most genuine emotion I’d seen from him: his real self, peeping out from behind the shutters. “How charming of you,” he said. He made an attempt at irony, but the smile gave him away.

I chanced another kiss, running my fingers through his damp hair. “You goose,” I told him. “I’m in love with you. Don’t you know that by now?” Looking back, it seems like a farce, that declaration of my heart’s passion with a wheezing aristocrat in the background and my head spinning like a top from bourbon. Yet the way he gazed at me, his eyes wet and unshielded, his mouth trembling—I can see him still, and even after everything, the memory of that look stokes the embers of my soul. And I _was_ in love with him. There was no denying it.

He kissed me gently, his fingers tracing over my closed lids, ruffling my eyelashes. His mouth was as soft and sweet as it had ever been. “I’ll make up some excuse for you not staying, but you’d better go now,” he said. “There’s no telling when he’ll wake.”

“We have to _do_ something,” I insisted. “For your sake, and for Alice’s.”

“Alright, sweetheart,” he said. “We’ll think of something. Now, off you go.”

I ran into Pegg on my re-entrance to the parlor. “Hullo,” he said in surprise. He was laying out a game of Solitaire. “What do you think you’re doing, creeping around the gardens?”

“I’m an invited guest, for God’s sake,” I snapped. “Why’ve you taken such an instant dislike to me, Mr. Pegg?”

He went on playing his game for long enough that I thought he was ignoring me, so I continued through the room. “Did you mean what you said last night?” he called out, just as I reached the arch leading to the foyer.

“I did,” I said, coming back towards him. “I don’t like this set up, much. Doesn’t seem quite right. And a girl like Alice…”

He gave me a hard look. “Yes?”

“Well, she should be out enjoying herself,” I finished awkwardly.

“Don’t tell me you’ve fallen for her?” he said, but he seemed more rueful than angry.

“Maybe just a mite,” I admitted, and sat down on the sofa opposite Pegg. My heart belonged to Zach, but there was something about Alice that still tugged at the strings. She was lonely, and I knew about loneliness.

Pegg gave a loud, startling shout of laughter. “You’re not the only one,” he said, laying out his cards. “We’re all a mite in love with her. Yes, all of us in our own way...even his Lordship.” His face darkened as he said it.

“Lord Cumberbatch’s love seems like it might be quite…” I hesitated. I didn’t want to step wrong. “Turbulent?”

Pegg scowled at his cards. “I do my best to protect her Ladyship from the worst of it. So does your fairy friend, Mr. Quinto.” He waved away my protest. “Oh, I have no quarrel with the lot of you. I’m not interested in what you do in your beds. I’m interested in her Ladyship, and what’s to become of her. She’s not well.”

“I can see that.”

“She needs saving.”

“We are agreed, then. Quinto has explained the situation to me, and we’re working on a plan.”

Pegg raised his eyebrows in amusement. “Oh, ho. I wonder if Mr. Quinto really sees the problem in the same way I do. As far as he’s concerned—” He stopped himself.

I said hotly, “I don’t know what you’re trying to insinuate. He cares very much for Alice, and he’s just as much a victim of Lord Cumberbatch as she is.”

“Well, well. Perhaps you’re right.” He was seeking to soothe me now, as though he thought he’d gone too far. Maybe, I thought, he was worried I’d complain about him to Quinto. “Very kind Mr. Quinto has been to her Ladyship over the years, there’s no doubt about that. And you say you’re working on a plan?”

Slightly mollified, I nodded. “Working on it.”

“And you’re not going to give up just because she tells you to? Or because it’s dangerous and it might bring harm to you? I need to know that you’re a man of honor.”

I picked myself up off the sofa. Somehow I had gone from wanting to run away with my tail between my legs to feeling like I could blow down the house with one puff of my indignation. “Mr. Pegg,” I told him, “I am an American. If there’s one thing we do better than any other nation, it’s riding in to save the day when all seems lost.”

His severe face cracked into a grin, and he offered his hand. “Pegg will do,” he said as I shook it. “I had the pleasure of serving with Americans during the war, and you’re not wrong, boy-o. You’re not wrong.”

My patriotic passion assuaged, I was tired again. “Pegg it is. Now, can you call me up a taxi again? I’m beat, and I need to get the hell out of here before I lay my fists into an unconscious aristocrat.”

 

***

 

Quinto did not join me at the bungalow that night, or the next, or the next. I was in an agony over it: had Cumberbatch twigged to our relationship? Had he beaten Quinto, tortured him? Had he—oh, God, had he gone too far?

I tried to type up my piece on Cumberbatch for the _Examiner_ , but every sentence was a struggle. I wanted to keep my base disgust for the man out of it, but it was leaking through despite myself, and I went through an awful lot of typing paper before I gave up. Until I knew Quinto was safe, I couldn’t lie my way through a story. I couldn’t write my book, either. Dread and fear filled me up sure as bourbon ever did, and I found it easy now to stay within the confines of the Chateau. I didn’t know what was waiting outside the grounds for me, and I stayed in my bungalow as much as possible. I turned down another dinner invitation from Montgomery Clift, and I kept an eye on the concierge, just in case Quinto tried to get a message to me through him.

I called Karl to ask him about the town car, but he was out to lunch again. “That man eats enough for an army,” I growled at Betty, his secretary, but she just laughed and told me she’d give him a message.

I bumped into the Magnolia Girl again one morning when I was hanging hopefully around in the lobby on the fourth day. She was wearing her hat as always, but had removed her sunglasses to argue with the concierge. She was a knockout, even in such a dark mood.

“I specifically said: no calls, no deliveries, no _nothing_.” Her accent was broad Queens, and I smiled to hear it despite my worry.

Monsieur Anton spread his arms in an approximation of French manners. “ _Je suis très désolé_ , _madame_. I did not imagine that a delivery of such beautiful flowers would be forbidden—”

There was an overflowing vase of white flowers between them, ludicrous in its height. The scent of them wafted far enough for me to catch their heavy, honeyed notes, and I was carried back to my father’s funeral just as the smell became oppressive.

“Get rid of them,” she hissed at Monsieur Anton. She brushed past me and out the door towards the pool, but I went after her. My curiosity was piqued.

“So you _do_ speak English,” I said. She snapped something rapidly in Spanish and continued walking, but I kept up with her pace. “Come on, dollface. You might as well talk to me as anyone else.”

“Breeze off, buster,” she said. “Can’t you take a hint?”

I was only teasing, but I stopped immediately I saw that her mouth was trembling. I’m not the world’s most tactful man, and I lay no claims to being clever, either. The booze had done for me there some years back. “Say, you’re really scared. What’s got you so bent out of shape? A few flowers?”

“White lilies!” she said, and when I looked at her blankly, and she added, “Funeral flowers, dumbell.”

I said, “Golly, I’m sorry. Is someone sending you condolences?”

She replaced her sunglasses and turned her back on me, making her way towards the gated path that led to our bungalows. I let her go. I didn’t want to startle the rabbit any more than I had already. But on my way up that same path, I spotted something white in the bushes. I fished it out; it was a crumpled florist’s card, with a _Hollywood Flowers_ logo embossed in gold on the front. It might have been anyone’s, of course. The message inside, too, might have meant anything. It was printed in neat block letters as though the writer didn’t want the recipient to misread a single word.

_DON’T BREAK YOUR MAMA’S HEART._

Yes, it might have meant anything, but a cold gripe clutched my gut as I stood there reading it. I tucked it in my pocket and when I got back to my bungalow, I ripped it into confetti before I set a match to it. I can’t say why I did it, but I felt I ought to see it obliterated.

Later that day, when words wouldn’t come and staring at the walls around my typewriter was making me stir crazy, I figured I might as well try again. I did it the right way this time; I grabbed one of the bottles of bourbon that had started to stockpile in the liquor cabinet, and headed to her bungalow. It was muggy outside. A storm was threatening, and I heard a grumble of thunder overhead as I reached her door. I knocked and knocked until my knuckles were sore.

“Look, I know you’re in there. I came with an olive branch.”

Still no answer.

“Okay, honey, I’ll beat it. I’m sorry about what I said before, didn’t mean to hit a nerve. Thought maybe you could use a friendly ear. But I’ll leave this here and go back to my own life, staring at my four walls and not writing.” I put the bottle down and began to walk away. Behind me, I heard the door squeak open.

“You’re a writer?”

“Sure am,” I said, turning back. For the first time I was seeing her without that hat in her face, and she was even prettier than I'd figured.

“That explains a lot.” What it explained to her, I never found out. “I’ve seen a fella visit you sometimes. Tall and dark. Dangerous-looking.”

So much for Quinto’s private entrances. But I shrugged. “He’s not so dangerous. Not compared to some.”

“He your sugar daddy?” She was leaning against the doorframe now, her arms crossed and hip cocked out. Her feet were bare and she wore no pantyhose under her skirt.  Her eyes were puffy and looked sore.

“Well, now, I…I guess he is.” We seemed to be making friends, so I saw no point in disabusing her of the notion if it pleased her—as it seemed to.

“What’s your name?”

“Christopher Pine. Call me Chris.”

“I’m Zoë.”

“No last name?”

“Just Zoë.”

“Pretty name.”

She bent to pick up the bottle. “Bourbon’s not my drink.”

“Then I’ll take it back—”

I reached for it, but she pulled the bottle away. “I been making some changes in my life lately. Try’na get brave. So why not?”

“Care for a drinking partner?”

“Nope.” She slipped back into her bungalow, but at least she was smiling at me. The storm broke overhead just as her door shut. I sighed, and hurried back to my own place, where I resumed staring at walls. I made some headway through another bottle of bourbon, too.

Close to midnight, I heard a key in the door. Quinto appeared out of the downpour, his hat drooling a lake onto the tiles in the entrance. I sprang up from the couch, throwing aside a magazine, and went straight to him. My first instinct was to grab him by the shoulders, but he winced when I did, so I backed off, let him hang up his soggy hat and coat. He looked drawn and ill, the crease between his brows more prominent than only a few days prior. He had missed, in his shaving, a small patch on the curve of his jaw.

He gripped me and held me still and looked me over. “I’ve missed you,” he said, and caught up my hands. He kissed my knuckles up and down, and pressed his lips to my palms as well. His nose was cold. I was so relieved I found myself laughing at his fervor.

After he kissed my mouth, he said, “I couldn’t get away. I’m sorry. And I couldn’t get word to you, even though I knew you’d be worried. I can’t trust anyone in that house; they’re always listening at doors, on the telephone.”

“Did he hurt you?” I demanded.

Quinto said simply, “He did.”

“And...what about Alice?”

He paused, as though he wanted to spare me, but then said, “Yes, she was there too. It wasn’t so bad this time, thank God. He just took exception to our liking you.”

I led him to the bedroom. “How’d he string _that_ bow? You threw me in the goddamn drink for laying a finger on him.”

He shrugged, and winced again. “Maybe I have a tell.”

My heart was beating fast. I liked the idea that he couldn’t hide it, even if it got him tortured. I felt like a heel. “What’s he done to you?”

He removed his shirt slowly, and turned. I can’t remember if I gasped or cursed. All I remember is seeing his pure pale flesh made into a mess of stripes and bruises. “It’s not as bad as it looks,” he said over his shoulder. “He only leaves marks when he’s being half-hearted about things. The worst tortures he’s devised are the ones that leave no outward signs at all.”

“I’ve never seen a mark on you before,” I whispered, and he turned back to face me.

“No,” he said, a world of meaning in the word. “I’ve done my best to be a very good boy since we arrived in Los Angeles. Our time in New York was rather frightful, you see. And when he _did_ leave marks, I stayed away from you. But I couldn’t anymore—I _had_ to see you, and besides, what would be the point trying to hide it? You know what he’s like now. You’ve seen it for yourself.”

I went straight back to the bar in the lounge, poured myself two fingers of bourbon with bad aim, and put too much ice in it. “Zach,” I said, before I had to rub at my eyes and compose myself.

He came close and wrapped himself around me from behind. “There, you’re finally calling me by my name. We’re real friends now.”

“Is that what we are?” My voice trembled, and he turned me to face him.

“Be brave, dear heart. There’s probably worse to come.” I’d never hated his ironic bent more than I did then.

“You have to go. If he knew you were here—”

He shrugged. “Benny doesn’t usually mind if I roam, so long as I come back when he tugs at the leash. He just wants me to know who’s boss—to carry that thought with me. It pleases him to know I take my prison with me wherever I go. But for now, let me put him out of my mind. Come to bed with me, so that I can forget.”

I did my best, but I wasn’t like him. I couldn’t coldly put aside my fears and worries. My body refused to cooperate and my mind was elsewhere, but I made sure he had some relief. Then I went right back to talking about it.

“What are we going to do?”

He set the ashtray in the small of my back this time, because I was lying face-down, my head turned to rest on one arm so I could look at him. It wasn’t until he’d  smoked his cigarette half down that he replied.

“I don’t see what we _can_ do. There’s no way to escape him.”

It struck me that I was well-placed to make a difference. "I'll crucify him in the press, that's what I'll do! I'll set up him in my article so Vice come sniffing—" But Zach was shaking his head.

"It won't do, lover. That would only end up hurting Alice, and...and me. Besides, he'd buy off Vice. He's rich as Croesus. You seem to keep forgetting the power that money brings." He leaned down to kiss my shoulder.

A dark thought was swirling around in my head, so I said it, even though it felt like I was cursing the man: “If only he would die.”

“Yes. If only.”

“But he’s quite healthy, you said.”

“Yes,” he agreed, and there was a pause. “But people die all the time. Not always of—of natural causes.”

I said nothing. What could I say?

He added, “Sometimes there are accidents.”

“Zach—” I said, and then I jerked at a small shot of pain, high up on my thigh.

“Sorry.” He’d flicked his cigarette with too much vigor, and a hot ash had landed on me. He leaned over to lick it, and I spread my legs for him as he nosed higher. He took a moment to grind out the cigarette and replace the ashtray on the bedside table before he really got down to business, lapping and slurping at me like I was a fine sorbet. It wasn’t anything he hadn’t done before, but this time was different just the same: he was marking out ownership with his tongue, nipping at me and working my flesh until I was panting and groaning for him.

When he fucked me again—just as I was, face-down on the bed—there was nothing tender in it, and it seemed to work better for me. I filled out, my balls aching, as he shoved into me. He pulled my head back by my hair and whispered in my ear; wild things, nonsensical; asking me something without saying the words outright.

_Would you—?_

I gasped _Yes, yes, yes_ as I spent myself, and we both knew what it was I really meant.

He turned me over then so he could take me face to face. Gentle, this time, and slow like he wanted me to remember it. The sheets were wet under my back but all I cared about was the heat of him, and feeling full of him, body and soul. He put his hands on my face. “You would do that for me?”

I wanted to grab on to him, to pull him close, but I didn’t want to hurt him more than he’d been hurt already. He came when I whispered his name, _Zach_ , like it was his cue.

He lay on top of me a long time after, and I felt his heartbeat decrease from racing to steady. “I’ll plan it out,” he said at last.

“God forgive me,” I sighed.

“Us,” he corrected me, but it seemed to me there wouldn’t be enough forgiveness for the both of us, not for something so wicked.

 _God forgive you_ , I thought. _If you can find Paradise, that’ll be enough for me_. See, I’d been of the opinion that there were some people in the world I’d be happy to burn for if it meant their salvation: my old Ma, my sweet sister and her kids. And now Zach.

What a magnanimous soul I was back then.

 


	5. Night and the City

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is Los Angeles,” I said. “Anything’s available if you can pay for it, and he sure can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: hair pulling, face slapping, forced exhibitionism, voyeurism.

It’s a simple thing to decide to murder a man, but it’s not so simple to come to terms with it. I felt dazed the next day, when Quinto—Zach. _My_ Zach—when he left me. He promised he’d come back that evening, since Cumberbatch was going to the theatre with Alice. The storm had passed overnight, so I had a day of bright sunshine to think about the fact that I was going to stop the breath of a living creature, make a heart to cease beating and two eyes to stop seeing. That spark of life that galvanizes us all—that was the thing I proposed to snuff out.

I couldn’t keep down even dry toast when I ate it, so I kept to bourbon for the whole of the day. I wrote nothing again. I didn’t even go out to sit poolside, worried that people would glance at me and see the blackness of my soul, the bloodlust reflected in my eyes. I thought about Dostoyevsky and guilt and insanity. We hadn’t even discussed the mechanics of it yet, but I was living with the consequences.

The blinds seemed unable to keep the sun out. It was too light in the bungalow, too cheerful. I passed out around five, a near-empty bottle by the bed, but woke when Zach entered close to half-nine. He came through to find me groggy on the bed, where he caught me up in his arms at once, kissing me back to sobriety.

“I can’t do it,” I said.

He leant back from me and I wondered what he was thinking. He ran a finger over my lips, like he was testing the truthfulness of my words. His smile had a cynical list to it, but his tone was gentle, understanding. “Of course not. We must have been mad last night even to contemplate it.”

Relief made me sag in his arms, and he laid me back down on the bed. He brought me a drink, but I pushed it away. I couldn’t face it, not then.  He drank it himself, lying down beside me fully clothed.

“Well,” I said eventually, when the room had stopped spinning around in my head. “If there’s not going to be an _accident_ and we already know a convenient death from health reasons ain’t on the cards, what are we going to do?”

He rolled onto his side and put a hand down my shorts, but I grabbed his forearm. “Come on,” I sighed. “You do a damn good job of distracting me, but you need to level with me.”

“I distract you, do I?” His tone was breezy, but there it was again, that shrewd, cunning look that was going to drive me out of my mind—if all the murder talk didn’t do it first. “Anyway, I can’t level with you. I don’t know what we’ll do. It rather depends on Benny.”

“Don’t call him that,” I mumbled, and let go his arm. He took the opportunity to continue exploring the contents of my shorts.

“Alright,” he said. “I won’t call him that.”

“I don’t want him hurting you anymore.”

“No more do I.” He had me in a nice firm grip, but I was starting to think I’d drunk too much to have fun that day. I stayed only half-hard despite his efforts.

“Leave off,” I said, irritated, but he wouldn’t.

“I like it like this.”

Well, if he liked it, I wasn’t going to stop him. He pulled off my shorts and sucked on me, taking me all the way into his mouth and swirling me around on his tongue. He really did seem to enjoy it, and after a while I started to as well, although nothing changed downstairs. But somehow it was a comforting feeling, and I was pleased that I could please him.

He moved my legs wider so he could get between them, still fully dressed as he was except for his shoes.  He kept a hand on me, massaging me like he was forming raw clay.

“I’d enjoy fucking you like this,” he told me.

“I’m not going to spill. I can’t even get hard.”

“I don’t mind. In fact, I’d like it that way.”

I swallowed. He was cupping himself through his pants as he ministered to me, and I could see he was ready. I thought about him taking punishments for me, and I figured the least I could do was let him have this if he wanted it. I didn’t know why he wanted it, but I wanted it too, and there would be plenty of times in future when I wouldn’t let the drink get the better of me. I was starting to think I’d better give it up, anyway. Give all those full bottles to the Magnolia Girl, now she had a taste for it.

“Alright,” I said. “Undress and have me.”

He shook his head and reached for the vial of oil he kept by the bed. “Like this, I think.” He leant over me, nose to nose.

“You’ll get your clothes messed.”

His fingers worked under my balls, petting at my hole. “Yes, I will. And I’ll go home reeking of you and Lord Cumberbatch will know exactly what I’ve been doing. Normally I make a tactful attempt to hide it from him, but not this time. And he might rage, and he might hurt me for it, but he’ll never be able to forget that I’ve had my pleasure with another.”

It was a logical enough argument, put like that, and he had three oiled fingers inside me already.  My prick was still slumped at half-mast, but I felt the sparks when he pushed against my most sensitive part, and whimpered when he withdrew.

He used those soiled fingers to take down his fly, and wiped them off on his thigh before coating himself with the oil. His cock was as pretty as the rest of him, long and curved in a gentle arc, rising out of a thatch of charming black curls. He arranged a pillow under me and then eased into me until his clothes were snug up against my skin.  It would be hell to get the marks out from the linen of his dress pants, but I liked the thought of Cumberbatch’s powerless rage as much as he did.

He had me like that, with my languishing cock trapped between us so his silk shirt rubbed against it, my scent and my sweat soaking into his fine clothes. He was right: he’d stink of me, undeniably, and the thought made me roll my hips in luxurious spite. Yes, let the Englishman know. I grabbed at his hips, urging him deeper into me, and he gripped my hair, yanking at it until I stretched out my throat for him, exposed to his scraping teeth. I was shuddering all over, mewling like a kitten, shaking in pain as much as I was in pleasure. Like the day before, he came when I moaned his name, panting against my neck like a dying man. After he pulled out, he began to clean me up with a shirttail, and I grinned at him.

“You really weren’t kidding about making it obvious, were you?”

“Not kidding at all.” He palmed my shaft again. It was throbbing but soft still. “Now listen, lover, he wants you to take us out tomorrow night.”

I spluttered a refusal. “I can’t do that. I can’t look him in the face again, not after—not after yesterday, and especially not after this. I’ll be a piece on the side and a holiday for you, Zach, and I’ll help you get away from him.  But I won’t drink with a man I’ve thought about killing. I still have _some_ honor left in me, the dregs of it at least.” Sediment in a bottle of cheap port.

“But you already promised you would,” he reminded me. “You gave him your word.”

I turned awkwardly underneath him and, out of habit, grabbed at the nearby bottle on the floor. But then I set it back down. I needed a clear head. “Zach, I can’t. You must see that. I can’t sit there and watch him treat you as he does.”

“Well, I thought…”

“What did you think?”

“I thought he might find his own holiday.” He spat on his other shirttail, the still-clean one, and dabbed at me again. Spit and polish.  “A substitute, if you will.”

A faceless, nameless substitute sure seemed like a better compromise than murder. And if that substitute had to suffer like Zach had suffered—well, he was faceless and nameless, and no concern of mine.

He bent to suck me again, and this time I felt a welcome stirring. He looked up at me, and paused to say, “He has unnatural tastes.”

I laughed helplessly until he gave me a pinch on my thigh. I slapped at his hand. “Unnatural, you say? And what’s this we’re doing?”

“I don’t believe there’s anything unnatural about Greek love,” he growled, and I chuckled again. Those moments where his suave exterior cracked a little, showing his real self underneath, those were the moments I loved him the most. He continued, “And you must know that’s not what I mean.”

In fact, I didn’t want to know what he meant. “This is Los Angeles,” I said. “Anything’s available if you can pay for it, and he sure can.”

“Start him with something risqué, but not…”

I supplied my own conclusions. Illegal? Sickening? “Alright. I know a place.” Zach went back to sucking on me, and despite the fact that he was asking me to act as pimp for his sadistic, immoral jailer, I found myself responding at last.

I was definitely going to kick the drink, I decided.

 

***

 

The next night was one of the worst of my life, and that’s saying something.

I was picked up in the town car—the same one I’d seen with Karl and at the house—from the corner near Schwab’s. It put me in mind again of pinning Karl down about it. Zach drove, but Cumberbatch sat in the back. He waved me in, all friendliness tonight, and I climbed in behind Zach. “Come on, come on. I want to hear all about you, Mr. Christopher Pine.” He was already tight. I’d kept myself to a meager ration that day, but I accepted the flask he offered me. “I’m afraid it’s scotch,” he said. “I just couldn’t come at your Kentucky bourbon. I did try it—Zach gave me some—but it went down like Greek fire.”

I said nothing, but took a mouthful from the flask. It was a peaty, bog-filled scotch whisky, the kind that sits gathering dust in most cellars because it’s too expensive to drink. I held on to the flask for a minute to take another drop, and that’s when I noticed the insignia engraved on the front. Those gyrating tendrils were strangely familiar. It took a moment to place them; they were the same as those adorning Zach’s cigarette case. I could make it out now—not ZQ, but BC.

“Tell me about yourself,” Cumberbatch said, turning to look at me. The man was attractive, in a cold, untouchable manner. His shirt was of the same quality as Zach’s, and his suit had been cut by a master. Savile Row, it occurred to me.

“There’s nothing to tell. I grew up here. I write.”

Cumberbatch made an impatient noise. “Go on, man. Where do you live?”

Zach caught my eye in the rearview mirror.

“I live at the Alto Nido apartments.”

“And are they pleasant, these apartments?”

“They’re a firetrap.”

“Are you seeking somewhere new to live?”

“Which way are we going?” Zach asked, and I was grateful for the interruption. I gave him some directions, and fended off the questions coming from Cumberbatch. I took his giggle-water when he offered it, though. I wasn’t going to get through this night sober.

I took them to a jazz club. It seemed fitting and quintessentially American. Zach would like it, I knew, and there was something about Lord Benedict Cumberbatch’s sheer Englishness that rubbed me the wrong way, made me competitive, want to rub his face in all things American. But he was all smiles when we walked in. He waved around enough cash to get us a private table, where we could still see the stage but we were wreathed in shadows and a gauzy curtain. It wasn’t the best club in LA, not even second-tier, but it had something I knew my tourist would enjoy.

“Later we can go through to the back rooms,” I said in his ear. “If you like.”

He laid his pale gaze on me. “The back rooms?”

“For diverse entertainments,” I told him.

He smiled wide, and I could’ve sworn for a moment I saw his grinning skull under the flesh. “You see,” he said. “I knew you wouldn’t let me down.”

Zach lit a cigarette. “Benny?” He offered the silver cigarette case, and Cumberbatch was forced to withdraw his attention from me to take one of the Gauloises. Zach leaned in with the lighter, but his eyes flicked to me. Cumberbatch gave me a sharp look as he released a stream of smoke. He leaned back in his chair, arms folded.

A waiter came by to take our order. He was a slip of a boy, his top lip dusted with hairs, athletic and tan. Pure California. Cumberbatch barely glanced at him. I was surprised, I’ll admit it; I’d assumed the Englishman liked ’em young, based on his houseboy. I had a scotch and soda same as Cumberbatch, who tipped the waiter liberally when he brought our drinks in minutes. While the kid was thanking him, I raised a finger to get some attention. “Might as well bring the whole bottle,” I said.

“Why not,” Cumberbatch said smoothly, although I knew I was pushing the limits of guestship, expecting him to pay for a whole bottle of top-shelf liquor just because I’d announced I wanted it. The place was a dive and the jazz was never any good, but the lubricants were kept select. Whoever ran the joint knew why his patrons came. The classy hooch was one thing. The other...well, I knew we’d get to that later.

So that was how I found myself in a third-rate jazz bar, drinking first-rate scotch with an English aristocrat. I began to feel pleased that I hadn’t written my article yet. This night begged to be included. Maybe I’d have to be careful what I said, but there were ways to get my message across.

Zach watched us drink without comment, but smoked cigarette after cigarette until the air was hazy around us. I imbibed and tried to enjoy the music, but it was a poor example of West Coast jazz. The trumpet-blower had lead-lined lungs and the fellow on drums couldn’t keep a solid beat. My mood passed from distant aggression to ferociousness gloved in bonhomie as the bottle’s contents dwindled.  Zach called a halt to the proceedings after about an hour. “You’re both such boring drunks,” he drawled, and I felt stung. “Come on, what about these back rooms?”

Cumberbatch, who somehow seemed to be getting more English the more he drank, waved a hand at me. “Yes, quite right. What about these back room delights you promised?”

I caught the attention of the waiter, and by and by we were escorted through an inconspicuous door at the side of the stage, painted the same dreary red as the walls. A short corridor followed, and then a row of small rooms branching off, self-contained and ostensibly private. We caught glimpses and sounds as we passed by; naked skin, moans, a laugh, the slap of leather on flesh. I’d been here before, but only ever after a big win on the horses. When we reached our booth, Cumberbatch stuffed several bills in the top pocket of our escort, and said something in his ear.

“I asked for champagne,” he said. “I think we’ve done enough damage to that bottle of scotch. Christopher, do you object to champagne?”

“Benedict, I never object to champagne.”

We just about fell into the room. Cumberbatch and I helped each other along, falling over each other, but finding solidarity in our drunkenness. Zach stepped over me, his long legs taking only one stride to do it, and arranged himself in the middle between us.

“And what about you, Zach?” Cumberbatch asked. “To what do your tastes run tonight?”

Zach shrugged. “Whatever you like, Benny.”

“He has some peculiarities, you see,” Cumberbatch told me, as though Zach had said nothing. “He likes it… _rough_.” I sneered reflexively, but he only grinned.

Somewhere along the way we’d shed our jackets and ties. Zach’s shirt was open at the throat and I couldn’t help glancing at him, my eyes straying up and down his body. He ignored me, and although I knew why, I was drunk enough for it to feel like a betrayal. Music began piping into the room. A piano tinkled, and Chet Baker sighed that the thrill was gone.

“I think our friend here is enamored of you, Zach,” Cumberbatch said softly, and I realized that while I’d been watching Zach, the aristocrat had been watching me. “And you of him.”

“Don’t be paranoid, Benny. It’s dreadfully dull.”

“I’m not paranoid, am I, Christopher?” He looked at me, his eyebrows raised. “You _are_ attracted to Zach.”

“Why, yes, Benny,” I said. “I _am_ attracted to Zach.”

Whatever he was about to say next was forestalled by the arrival of the champagne. After we’d been served, I raised a glass, feeling reckless. “To Zach,” I said. “Beloved by all who know him.”

Cumberbatch gave a wry smile, but he joined me in the toast. “To Zach.”

Zach lit another cigarette, and I tried to remind myself that he was the one who would bear the brunt of my behavior.

“What now?” Zach asked. “You wanted entertaining, Benny.”

“I did ask what _you_ wanted,” Cumberbatch said.  Zach said nothing. “No? Well, then. We shall have to make our own entertainment.” He pushed past Zach across the table, slumping to get closer and gesturing me near. I leaned in. “I’ll tell you what. Why don’t you suck Zachary’s cock?”

I couldn’t think of a thing to say. The room was silent, apart from Chet’s breathy voice: _this is the end, so why pretend…_

I laughed. I had to. “It’s a generous offer, Benny, but it’s hardly yours to make.”

He wagged a finger at me. “Yes, I see what you mean. But in fact, it _is_ mine to make.  And anyway, the truth of it is, Zach is just waiting for me to ask you. Aren’t you, Zach?”

We both looked at the man in question, Cumberbatch with expectation and me with open-mouthed astonishment. Zach frowned. “That’s not funny,” he said.

Cumberbatch tipped his head to the side. “But surely—”

“Alright,” Zach broke in, “since we’re going down this route. Why don’t I suck Christopher’s cock?”

Things felt as though they were beginning to get out of control. I said, “There are any number of men employed here who will happily suck _anyone’s_ cock, as long as they’re paid. And I thought that was why we came here.”

Cumberbatch’s confusion seemed to clear. “Oh. Is that it? I do beg your pardon.” He took out a ten-dollar note and laid it on the table in front of me.

I stared at it, and suddenly my rage returned. “You goddamn—”

“Benny,” Zach said loudly. “Would you excuse us for a moment?”

Cumberbatch blinked, and then stood up. “One does find one needs a gentleman’s break.”  He stumbled outside, and we heard him saying to someone, “I say, old chap. Could you point me to the _pissoir_?”

“Jesus _Christ_ ,” I exploded, but Zach’s furious face quelled me.

“What exactly,” he asked icily, “do you think you’re playing at?”

“I _told_ you I couldn’t take it. Why’d you have to—”

He leaned in close and hissed, “This is not _about_ you.”

I was left with my mouth hanging open like a flytrap. He was right, after all. It was about _him_ , him getting free and clear and able to live without fear. Yet here I was setting him up for another beating just because I’d got my feelings hurt by a son of a bitch.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t think.”

“You heard him before. He can see something’s up. And might I remind you, _I_ am the one who will pay for it. For every snide remark you make, every condescending look you give him, every time you make him think—”

“I’m sorry,” I said again, and I flushed. “He doesn’t seem so mad, though. He left us alone together, didn’t he?”

Zach lit a cigarette and shook out the match with a grandiloquent gesture. “Do you know what Benny thinks I’m doing right now?” He let the smoke pour out of his lungs into my face, and I coughed, shook my head. “Haggling over the price.”

I frowned, and started, “He’s a—” but I broke off when Zach held up a hand.

“He is _used_ to paying for whatever he wants. It is how his world works. And it’s the only thing likely to save me. You want to save me, don’t you? Or do you take the same pleasure he does in imagining me in pain?”

I clutched my head. It was really pounding now, and I was in an agony thinking Zach might see me in the same light as his captor. “No. I’m not like him, I’m not like him at all.”

“Well, then. When he comes back in, you’re going to accept another five on top of that ten sitting in front of you, and you’re going to suck me off and let him watch you doing it. Understand?”

I was fly-catching with my mouth again.

“Understand?” he repeated, and ground out his cigarette, though it was only half-smoked.

“Why can’t you…When he said it before, you said you’d…”

“I was trying to distract him, make him decide he wanted to keep me for himself tonight after all. But he won’t have it. Sometimes he likes to see others using me. And as for why I can’t perform on you, well.” He gave a glance at my lap. “You’ve had a lot to drink tonight, haven’t you?”

I went scarlet.

“So we are agreed,” he said softly, and Cumberbatch tumbled back into the room.

“Look what I found,” he said, grinning wildly. He was pulling the waiter by the arm, and the kid looked pleased with himself. “We can get _him_ to—”

“No need,” Zach said quickly. “Chris here has agreed, for another five.”

Cumberbatch snorted. “Expensive, aren’t you?” he said to me. He pushed at the waiter. “You’re not needed after all,” he said, but he was still looking at me. The kid fixed me with a glare as well. I guess I couldn’t blame him; I was taking away his income for the night. But he slipped out of the room and closed the flaps again.

Lord Cumberbatch took out his money clip and peeled off another bill before holding it out to me. I leant across to take it, but he pulled it back. “On what, exactly, did you decide?”

“Just like you wanted, Benny,” Zach murmured. Cumberbatch held the note towards me again, and I grabbed it before he could pull it back again. I figured I should act the part, keen for the green. It also gave me an excuse to stop looking at him. It was starting to make me uncomfortable, the way he fixated on my face.

“You really do have remarkable eyes,” he said. “When you blush, they stand out even more.” I must have gone red again at that, because he kept on. “I’ve never known a rent boy who blushes as much as you.”

“I’m not a—”

“Shall we?” Zach said, and opened his fly. He pushed the table back like an invitation. It gave me enough room to get on my knees, but I stayed still. I couldn’t move.

“Good God, what is it _now_?” Cumberbatch demanded.

“Why, he’s fastidious,” Zach told him. He took out his handkerchief and spread it across the floor between his feet. “He doesn’t want to get his fine new suit dirty. Don’t damn him for wanting to stay clean, Benny.”

There was no getting around it, so I made myself go down on my knees. Zach smoothed a hand over my cheek and I looked up at him, at his deep dark eyes looking back into mine. I could read the warning in them, and I knew what he would have said if he could: _Just us, just the two of us, pretend we’re locked away in the bungalow. It’s just us._

The devil of it was that I found myself enjoying it. I _liked_ that this reprobate Englishman was watching me pleasure his toy. I liked that I was showing him how to do it right, how to make Zach groan and say _Yes_ and _Oh, God_. I liked that I was showing him I could please Zach so much it made him writhe on my tongue.

I heard him saying something, and Zach pulled me off by my hair. I would have complained but for the apology in his eyes.

I _did_ complain when he slapped me, right across the face.  “Hey!”

“Again.”

Zach obeyed, cracking me across the other side this time. It stung. It was going to leave a mark, and his other hand had pulled out a few of my hairs just from the force of it. He grasped me high up under my jaw, fingertips digging into me, and turned my face towards the aristocrat. “Beautiful color,” Cumberbatch said.

Zach nodded. “You were right. As always.”

It was only the way he tenderly slipped a thumb across my lips that kept me from making a scene.

“Another five dollars,” he said, smoothing his hand on my face to take some of the hurt out of it. “We’ll give you twenty total for your trouble. Won’t we, Benny?”

All I heard was a brusque, “Again.” Zach slapped me hard enough to make me yelp, and tipped my face up again for inspection. “Yes,” Cumberbatch exhaled. “Alright. Twenty total.”

It was unmanly, being kept under the table between Zach’s knees, made to suck him for cash and for someone else’s pleasure, slapped around just to make my eyes stand out more against red cheeks. And yet—there was something keeping me there, and it wasn’t just the hand around my throat, and it wasn’t the thought of Zach getting hurt for my sake, either. I could see he was enjoying it, his cock hard and hot and butting into my chin. His eyes glittered when he looked at me, and his gaze made me loose and pliable. He could stuff me down on him and reach the back of my throat without difficulty, and in fact he did so several times until I was gasping for breath.

“Wait.”

Zach pulled me off his prick and we each turned to look at our observer. I could tell Zach was near to finishing; from the corner of my eye I could see the head of his cock leaking fluid from the slit, and his balls were drawn high and tight.

“How much to let him fuck you?” Lord Cumberbatch asked.

Zach said nothing, but his breathing retained the same fast pace.

“Well?” Cumberbatch demanded.

“Benny, wouldn’t you rather watch me paint his face? Make him keep his eyes open while I do it? I’m quite close; I wouldn’t last long inside him anyhow.”

He waved a hand, dismissive. “No. I want to watch you fucking him. So how much?” He looked at me then. “Another twenty? Thirty? Just state your price. Don’t ask me to bargain with you; I’m very poor at it.”

“You are,” Zach said, and pulled me up gently from the floor. He sat me in my old spot and smoothed back my hair, tender as a mother. “Perhaps we should get the waiter back in if you want to watch me fucking someone.” He was looking at me as he said it, and mouthed, _I’m sorry_.

“No.” I blurted the word out, and surprised him. I turned to Cumberbatch. “No, I’ll do it. Make it sixty all up, since I’m betting you want him to slap me around some more.”

“He begins to understand my methods,” the Englishman said. His smile did not reach his eyes.

“I…I might not get hard.” I figured he might as well know up front. I didn’t want him demanding I finished too, making Zach work me over for an hour until I could dribble out a pathetic climax like I had the other night.  Besides, admitting it made me embarrassed again, and Cumberbatch seemed to like that look on me.

There was something in me, too, that wanted to confess to him. Wanted to shame myself in front of Zach, maybe. Show him what I would go through for him. I licked my lips after I made my admission, and the Englishman watched my tongue, expressionless. All he did was ring the bell next to the swing door to ask for some oil. Zach stayed seated, his cock standing out of his clothes. He stroked it idly from time to time.

“Undress,” Cumberbatch told me, and so I was stripped to my underwear by the time the waiter came back with the oil. The kid looked away from Zach’s brazen display, but he gave my half-dressed body a gawk. I could see Cumberbatch debating whether to ask him to stay, but Zach took control.

“Thank you,” he said. “You may clear the table and leave the oil on it.” The waiter backed out with the half-empty bottle and glasses, taking his time about it. I waited until he was gone before I resumed undressing.

Zach loosened his tie and began to unbutton his shirtfront, but Cumberbatch frowned. “Why are _you_ undressing?”

Zach sighed, “Alright, Benny,” and picked up the oil. “If you would bend over the table,” he said to me, as though he were a barber asking me to lean my head forward so he could reach the back of my neck.

I did as he asked, bracing my forearms on the sticky tabletop and hanging my head down between my shoulders. He nudged my legs wider and I closed my eyes. A tinny trumpet wailed from the background music. When I felt Zach’s slick, cool fingers running down my cleft, I flinched, but relaxed enough to let him get a finger inside me. My own breathing was loud in my ears.

Two fingers. My arms were shaking, locked at the elbows. I opened my eyes and stared straight ahead at the Englishman.

“Enough,” said Cumberbatch, the word flickering out of his mouth like a snake’s tongue. “Take him.”

I wasn’t ready, and I wasn’t relaxed like I had been every other time. Zach did like to fuck me when I was still tight, said he liked to feel resistance, but it hadn’t felt like this before. It wasn’t painful; not exactly. It was thick and burning and inexorable, pushing its way inside me, Zach’s hand on my hip to make sure I stayed in place. And there were those pale blue eyes a few inches from my own, taking in every flinch I made, every tiny twist of my mouth.

I let out a long, low sound. It was faint and quickly swallowed up by the background jazz, but the Englishman heard it. I could tell by his tight-lipped smile. I hung my head again and caught sight of the cash, still on the table underneath me.

“Keep your eyes on me,” Cumberbatch said quietly.  “So you can make sure that I am entertained.” The meaning was clear. My body, my enjoyment, were none of his concern; it wasn’t even about Zach. I glanced his way for a moment, and then dropped my head again. “Zach,” Cumberbatch said.

“Come, now, bunny. Be amenable,” Zach panted, and grasped a fistful of my hair to yank my head up. I grit my teeth and stared at Cumberbatch like he wanted, and I found my own gratification where I could. Zach’s fingers were digging in to my hips so hard they were pressing uncomfortably on bone.  I was half-hard after all, but shivering violently. I had expected Cumberbatch to pleasure himself, to draw his prick out of his pants and stroke it in front of me, nut in my face, even--but he didn’t. He simply watched, his legs crossed, his foot bouncing in the air, a cigarette dangling from his long fingers.

Zach slapped my rear a couple of times, like I was a racehorse he was urging on faster. I bucked for him and picked up speed.  I felt sympathy then for the animals I’d won and lost so much money on. Perhaps this was some cosmic revenge and I deserved it. I liked it, though. I liked the idea that we were together in this, the two of us racing towards a finish line that would see us free and independent. And this American mustang could outrun any English thoroughbred.

Zach pulled me up after a few minutes to stand on my toes, and I teetered around trying to keep my balance. He wrapped a hand around my throat and squeezed. I grabbed at his wrist, but he kept at it, rutting into me and closing off my airway. Cumberbatch looked me up and down, watching my prick bouncing under the assault. I couldn’t breathe. I was starting to panic, at the relentless hand around my neck and at the expression Cumberbatch was wearing as he watched. My face was going beet red; I could feel it. I clawed at Zach’s hand, but he kept it up until he finished, flooding me and biting at my shoulder, and then he let me go. I collapsed forward, hacking and wheezing and spitting curses, and felt a hand on the back of my neck.

“Just stay there a minute,” Zach puffed at me, and ran a soothing hand over my flank. I was still stuffed full of him, and soaked with sweat. He leaned forward for a moment and I couldn’t help flinching. What next? Something cold and heavy settled on my lower back.

The ashtray. I wasn’t sure which of them had put it there.

“Just stay still,” Zach said again. I was shaking, but I stayed spread-eagled on the table even as he removed his hand from the scruff of my neck. Playing dead. Next second, though, I jerked enough to rock the ashtray on my back; he was spreading me open. I felt his prick slide out of me and heard the quiet _snick_ of a lighter. The familiar scent of French cigarettes filled the small room. After that there was silence and a slow, gelatinous drip from my hole. 

Then I felt it: a point of heat hovering above my skin. I couldn’t see but I knew what was happening. Zach was holding the tip of his Gauloise over my left buttock, fiery and glowing and a mere quarter inch from my flesh. I stopped shaking and held myself as still as possible. If he was going to do it, I couldn’t stop him, and from the lascivious look on Cumberbatch’s face, he was expecting it too.

The heat withdrew, and Zach stubbed out the cigarette in the copper ashtray. It warmed enough to make me wince, but Lord Cumberbatch looked disappointed.

“Well?” he said. There was a pause, during which the ashtray was removed.

“I’m afraid my handkerchief is soiled,” Zach replied. “I laid it out on the floor.”

“Then by all means, use mine.” From the corner of my eye I saw the Englishman take a monogrammed silk handkerchief out of his top pocket with a flourish, and shake it out before presenting it to Zach. It brushed against my cheek, and I flinched. He bent down until his lips were adjacent to my ear, and purred, “It would be discourteous not to leave you as we found you.”

Whatever he meant, I was sure I wouldn’t like it. I turned my face so I was nose-down, forehead on my folded arms. The tabletop stank of stale booze and old tobacco, but at least I didn’t have to look at that debauched aristocrat, peering at Zach’s ministrations like a neophyte watching a master surgeon. I set my jaw when I felt the cool touch of silk to my hole. Zach was wiping me down, just like he had at the bungalow. He took his time about it, wriggling silk-covered fingers into every fold of skin.

When he was done, he helped me up again. He passed the handkerchief back to Lord Cumberbatch, who folded it and waved it delicately under his nose like he was scenting its bouquet. He slid it into the inner pocket of his dinner jacket.

“Sublime,” he said to me, “and well worth the money.”

The money. One bill was on the table, spattered with oil. The rest was strewn over the floor, and after a meaningful squeeze of my wrist from Zach, I stooped to gather it. My hands, I noticed, were still shaking, and I didn’t want to try speaking. Not yet. My throat was sore and my tongue felt enlarged, even bruised. My ears were ringing faintly, and I couldn’t look at either of them. I would explode if I did. I would beat a rich man to death with my bare fists. That would make for a big-selling story, alright, but it wouldn’t be me writing it.

I clutched at my clothes and dressed clumsily, listening to Cumberbatch saying something about how he’d never understood the appeal of jazz, but tonight he could appreciate it for the first time. When I was dressed, I remained standing until he glanced up.

“I’ll leave you to it,” I coughed, my voice hoarse.

“But we’re just getting started,” he said.

That was what worried me. “I have a deadline in the morning.”

“The article on me?” he asked, and raised an eyebrow.

I still couldn’t look at Zach. “Sure. That article.”

“Ye-esss,” Cumberbatch said, drawing out the word.  “I can imagine you might have some edits to make on it.”

I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I was tired by then, tired of the games.

“Good night,” I said, and blundered out of the room. I heard the door ricochet in its frame behind me. I made it several steps before I had to lean against the wall for support, let my lungs heave in air that hadn’t already been breathed in and out by Lord Benedict Cumberbatch.

Faintly, I could still hear his rarefied accent. “He would be perfect. Ask him tomorrow.”

I made it to the front of house and saw the waiter. I waved him over. “Here,” I said, and pushed the sixty dollars into his hand. I left before he could ask any questions.


	6. Suspicion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quinto went to so much trouble perfecting his mask that even now I couldn’t know if he was telling the truth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Check out [this AMAZING art](http://silent-bridge.tumblr.com/post/115461639969/thats-always-been-my-problem-too-willing-to-go) Silent Bridge created. ALL MY FEELS IN ONE GRAPHIC.

I woke early the next morning wrestling with a hangover, and immediately started work towards creating another. Bourbon as breakfast had been something I generally tried to avoid in my life, but sometimes it was the only palatable option.

The problem I had with the preceding night wasn’t the sex. I’d never been shy about being watched. I’d gone to enough bathhouses to have eradicated any sense of modesty in my youth. And it wasn’t even the liberties Zach had taken—on Cumberbatch’s orders, I reminded myself. Zach’s enjoyment of it made me wonder, but not over-much. Hadn’t he shown that dominating trait when we were alone?

No. It was what I’d heard after that didn’t sit square: _He would be perfect_. Alice’s words came back to me too: _You mustn’t let yourself be collected_. Is that what it was all about?

The idea seemed preposterous, but then—I didn’t know much about Zach. I only knew what he’d told me. And he’d lied before; let me think he was a big-shot. Then he’d told me he wanted to take Cumberbatch out so he could meet a distraction. _That_ sure hadn’t happened, and in fact now that I thought it over, Zach hadn’t made much effort to divert the Englishman’s attention from me.

So what else had he lied about? I loved the man, but I also loved my freedom, such as it was.

By eleven-thirty I’d decided it was time to lean on Karl and find out exactly what he knew. He’d been dodging my calls again, and I hadn’t had him chasing me up for the article on Cumberbatch. Reticence was not among Karl’s personality traits, so the whole thing was beginning to seem fishy.

I didn’t bother to call again. I just turned up at his office. His secretary hemmed and hawed and put me off.  I stared at the shut door proclaiming KARL URBAN in brass letters. I knew he was in there. Probably listening at the door. I didn’t want to make trouble for poor Betty—she was a good kid—so I camped out on the park bench opposite his office. I’d taken a leaf out of his Lordship’s book, and had a hipflask with me for something to do while I waited. I was still planning to ease up on the booze, but not that day. Not after the night I’d had.

Karl came out of his office a little after noon, like I’d gambled he would. He wore his hat low and pulled his collar up, but his rangy shoulders and broad chest were recognizable anywhere. I tailed him down the sidewalk, relieved he’d chosen lunchtime to make an appearance. I wasn’t good at being discreet, but the bustling streets helped hide me. Karl’s obliviousness helped, too.

When I realized where he was going, I dropped back some. I knew it all too well: Johnny Cho’s Hollywood front shop was just down the street. It was a down-market tailor on the sign out the front, and out back was where Johnny ran his business. He knew Hollywood was where the best pickings were: fools like me with more need for the rush of a win than sense in their head.

Just like I thought, Karl ducked into the tailor.  I wondered whether to follow or wait. Johnny liked order and quiet and he didn’t put up with quarrels on his turf. He maintained his neutrality, and that was how he did so much business, so I waited. I didn’t like my chances at the business end of the hardware Johnny’s men favored.

There was a newsstand on the opposite side of the street, just a little way down, so I headed there. The Incubus was front-page news on every rag, moniker and all. I picked up the _Los Angeles Times_ to give the competition a look. Chief Greenwood was quoted saying something appropriately vague and there was a blurry photograph of six grim-looking officers searching a field.

“Hey, Mac, this ain’t a public library,” the newsie groused at me, so I put down the _Times_ and paid for the _Examiner_.

They had a new glamor headshot of the victim, making her out to be more a star than a wannabe. Rachel Nichols, platinum blonde jazz singer, trying to break into the pictures. Her agent had given the paper an interview ( _EXCLUSIVE with the Man Who KNEW HER BEST_ ) but it was an inside story, page two. Before I could turn to it, Karl stepped back out into the street, so I rolled up the _Examiner_.

Karl mopped his brow before he replaced his hat. But he seemed relieved, happy even—he stuck his hands in his pockets and sauntered off whistling. I thrust the paper under my arm and watched. Karl was making his way back to his office, so I waited until he was opposite me, and ran across the road to fall into step with him.

“Hello, friend,” I said.

Karl started as though he thought I meant to do him harm. Maybe I did.

“Long time, no see,” I continued, pulling him along by the elbow.

“Mate, it’s not a good time,” he said nervously.

“No? You were happy as a clam at high water just a second ago. What’s changed? You suddenly remembered that article you need from me on Lord Benedict Cumberbatch?”

“Damn it, Pine,” he hissed.

“Why, don’t say it’s _me_ making you look so sour. We’re friends, Karl. _Mates_. Right?” I pushed him into an alley behind a stack of crates, and made him look at me. He shook my grip off, but I blocked him in by bracing my hand against the wall next to his shoulder. “Don’t try to make a break for it, shitbird. I’ve got some questions, see? And you have some answers.”

“No, I—”

“Oh yes, you do.” I grabbed his shirtfront and he put his hands up.

“Alright, alright, fair cop. Don’t rough me up. I’ve got a date with Betty tonight and she doesn’t like a scrapper.” I let him go and he smoothed down his shirt, shrugging it back into place under his coat.

“Betty deserves a lot better than you.”

“Don’t I know it.”

“I saw you that day.”

“What day?”

I held up a fist again and he ducked. “Alright, bloody hell. I’ll tell you what you want to know; I’m not a mind reader, though. What day?”

“The day you gave me that Cumberbatch job,” I snarled.

“Ah.”

“Well? Who was in that car? Was it Cumberbatch? Was the whole article job a set up?”

He looked shifty then, and I knew I’d said too much. But he said, “Yeah, mate. Yeah. The article was a set up, and I’m sorry about that. I know you wanted to see something in print, but I would’ve paid you anyway, God’s truth. How—how’d you find out?”

“ _I’m_ asking the questions. Why’d he want me to take it?”

“How should I know? I was just told to make sure you took it.”

He might have been lying, but it didn’t really matter. _I_ knew why Cumberbatch offered me the job, or thought I did. He wanted to try me out, see what I was like close-up, see if I would fit in his collection. Last night had been my audition, but he must have been watching me for longer than I thought. I wanted to howl; I settled for grabbing Karl by the lapels and slamming him into the wall. His hat fell forward over one eye. “You’re a rat, Karl. You sold me out and you don’t even know why.”

“I’m sorry, mate, I really am.” He pushed back his hat, and laid a pacifying hand on my fist, still clenched on his coat. “But you don’t know—you _can’t_ know what it’s been like.”

“You better _make_ me know.”

He talked fast, like he knew I meant business. “Johnny Cho had the tip of a lifetime for me, the kind that could see me set for the decade. He loaned me some capital to lay on, but—”

“The nag didn’t come through,” I said. It was a familiar tale. Sometimes Johnny’s tips were golden. Sometimes they weren’t.

“You got it,” Karl said. “He had his crew tailing me for the money he’d floated me, so I borrowed from Weller to pay up. Then I owed Weller, and he put the screws on, upped the juice on my loan. I owed him big, Chris. _Big_. And he sent his boys for me.”

No one would ever accuse them of it, but it was plain to anyone with eyes to see that Johnny Cho and Pete Weller ran a tandem business. Johnny took the bets and Weller was the biggest loan shark in West Hollywood. They helped each other out, recommended each other to their customers. I knew it. The police knew it. Everyone knew it. But that was just the way things were in this town.

I gave Karl another shake for good measure. “I owe Weller too, Karl. We _all_ owe him. But we don’t all sell out our friends.”

“You don’t get it,” he said urgently. “I was in too deep, I’d run out of time. They were making me do lowdown things, things a decent man would never do…but it was a rock and a hard place, mate. I couldn’t take it any more. I was planning to get out, disappear. Go east maybe, or even back home. Then out of nowhere—out of nowhere—as long as I got you to take the job—”

“Cumberbatch paid off your debt,” I guessed.

Karl looked ashamed, but he shrugged. “I really _am_ sorry, Pine. But I’m fond of my neck and I wanted to keep it straight. I _had_ to take the lifeline. And anyway, it’s not like you’ve been put out, is it? I’ll still pay you, if that’s your beef.”

“I oughta knock your damn teeth out,” I told him, and raised a fist.

He cringed, but said, “Go on, then. I guess I deserve it.”

I wanted to. I wanted to bust his nose and take out my anger and embarrassment and humiliation on him, but there was no point. Beating Karl wouldn’t change anything, and he was just as much a dupe as I was. “Aw, forget it,” I said.

He called out to me when I reached the sidewalk. “Word of advice, mate. Never trust those rich bastards.”

“You’re a fine one to be lecturing me about trust,” I told him bitterly, and left him there on the street.

 

***

 

In the afternoon I had nothing else to do but lie by the Marmont pool, wearing my towel around my neck to try to cover the marks from the night before. I took a bottle of bourbon with me. No one said a thing about it, until the Magnolia Girl walked by when it was starting to get cool and stopped to raise a critical eyebrow at me.

“You should go sleep it off,” she advised.

“I tried already. Didn’t work.”

She sat next to me on a straight-backed chair, her white skirts swirling around her knees. “Don’t let him get to you, honey.”

“What are you talking about?”

“A stupor like this? That’s always over a man.”

“Maybe it’s over a girl,” I said darkly, but she shook her head.

“Girl troubles have a different stench,” she said. “Less stale bourbon, more…”

“More what?” I asked. At least she was taking my mind off my troubles.

“Rotten. Stagnant. Like dead flowers in a vase. Or so it seems from the fellas I’ve known.” She looked away.

I swung my legs over the side of the lounging chair and sat up to get a better look at her. She was wearing her hat, as always, but no sunglasses, so I got the full benefit of her beautiful eyes.

“That’s less poetic than I was expecting,” I said, and took a swig from my bottle. She pulled it from my hand and I almost expected her to throw it in the pool. But instead, she raised it to her lips and drank. She wiped her mouth afterwards and huffed. “Still not your drink?” I asked, grinning.

She wrinkled her nose. “Not for lack of trying.”

“Maybe it’s your method. I could help you out.”

She laughed, shaking her head. “You’re half drunk and still stinking of whatever you did last night, and you’re hitting on me?”

I rubbed a hand across my face, feeling the coarse scratch of my unshaven jaw. The jaw Zach had been panting against last night as he choked me. He’d been getting more turbulent each encounter we had, but last night had certainly been the roughest so far. I felt a sudden yearning for something soft, a tender spell of lovemaking that wouldn’t leave me at death’s door.  “Tell me straight. Do I have a chance?”

She studied me, and for a moment I thought it might be a go, but then her eyes narrowed. “What are those marks on your neck?”

“Nothing. Just got into a fight.” I pulled the towel higher over the bruises. I’d forgotten about them as the afternoon and the bourbon had worn on, although my throat was still sore.

She gave a sudden, bird-like twist of her head, as though something startled her, and stood. I blinked up at her as she thrust the bottle back at me. She said: “Take some advice. Quit while you’re ahead.”

“You mean with you? Or with the booze?”

“Neither,” she whispered, and she was gone in a pirouette of white silk. Her skirts brushed my face as she left, and I was reminded of the handkerchief last night. I shuddered, and took a gulp from the bottle while I watched her leave, trying to chase the memory away.

“Hello, friend,” said a voice behind me, and I jumped.

Zach was put together as neat as you please, beige dress pants and shirt, and the vicuna coat making another appearance. He looked every inch like he belonged here at Chateau Marmont; he might have been a movie star oozing charm, all smiles, and with the new Miles Davis record tucked under his arm. He stared down at me from behind dark glasses, and I knew how I must look: bleary-eyed, unshaven, a little bloated.

“Come along.” He brushed past and I trailed in his wake, eddying on my drunken feet like the waves behind a cruise ship. He pushed me peremptorily inside when we reached the bungalow, and I stumbled to the sofa, bourbon sloshing over my hand from my open bottle. I’d lost the stopper somewhere along the way.

He was on me as soon as I landed, sucking at the bruises on my neck like he wanted to renew them.

“Hey,” I said, and then shoved at him. “Hey. Hey!”

He sat up, watching me, acting surprised. Like he’d just come in from a hard day’s work, _I’m home, honey, what’s for dinner?_ , and got told to fix his own damn meal. “Come to bed,” he said, taking my wet hand in his. The smirk he’d worn since he came through the front door suddenly made me want to hang one on his jaw.

“What’s so funny?” I asked.

“Why, nothing,” he said. “Can’t I enjoy looking at you?”

“A few days back I might have said that since you’re paying for me, I guess you should do as you please. But it’s not you paying for me, is it?”

His eyes locked on mine. “So you’re still sore about last night.”

I let out a cynical laugh. He stood and went to the record player, where he set up Miles Davis. “I’ve been looking forward to hearing this,” he said. Then: “I’m sorry. About last night, I mean. It got out of hand.”

“It sure did.”

“Though really, he was very well behaved. For Benny.”

I went to wipe off my hands at the bar and fixed myself a seltzer. “I wasn’t talking about _Benny_.”

“Ah,” he said, wary now. Then: “Why don’t you pour us both a bourbon and we can discuss it?”

I downed my seltzer water and fixed another. “I find myself in the curious and unfamiliar position of _not_ wanting a bourbon.”

He gave me a friendly smile. “But there are so many bottles stocked up. We have a surfeit of bourbon. Someone has to drink it!”

“Then get drinking.” I wrenched open a new bottle, splashed some at a glass and thrust it at him. He took it from me by the tips of his forefinger and thumb and set it on the side table as though it was something revolting to him.

“You’re angry.”

“You’re damn right I’m angry,” I spat. “I took him to that dive specifically so he could find a new toy to play with, just like you said you wanted. But all the time you were throwing _me_ at him—”

“Come, now, that’s unfair, I—”

“—waving me around like a red cape—”

“—never intended anything like that to happen, and—”

“—in front of a bull and left me to—”

“—I _did_ try to get the waiter back in instead.”

“—get _gored_ , like a chump.”

We had raised our voices enough that the silence seemed loud when we stopped.

Zach asked coldly, “Would you have preferred he gore you himself? Is that it?”

“Jesus Christ.” I rubbed at my cheek. “Of course not,” I said finally.

“I did warn you. And I _did_ try to get his attention away from you. It just wasn’t very successful.” He bent across to pick up his cigarette case, and tapped one of his Gauloises on the silver cover three times before lighting it. He put ice, two cubes, into a tumbler and poured bourbon over them. Just the way I liked it. “Besides, you were the one who _insisted_ …”

He did me the courtesy of not stating it outright, that I’d asked for my treatment, but it was a fair point. I accepted the bourbon when he handed it to me, but there was something still bothering me. “What did he want you to ask me?”

He took a sip of his own drink. “You heard that, did you?”

Cool and collected as always, he was, and never answering a question straight. It made me mad. I wanted to rock him, so I said, “Stop lying to me, Quinto.”

“I have never lied to you.” His voice was even, but there was a temper flash in his eyes.

“Cut it out,” I said. “You lied about being married, you lied about being rich, you lied about—”

“I am not responsible for _your_ wild assumptions,” he broke in, smoke pouring out of his mouth along with his indignation. “You made them; I just never corrected them. I’m not lying to you. I didn’t want to tell you the whole truth, but I’ve never lied.”

“Tell me the whole truth now, or I swear to God—” I stopped when he rolled his eyes.

“Oh, yes? What do you swear? Please do continue.”

I set down my glass. “I’m through here. You do as you like; I’ll be on my way.”

He moved to block my passage into the bedroom, where I fully intended to pack and leave. He was apologetic and pouting. “Don’t be like that, please. Don’t let’s fight, not when _he’s_ the one with whom we should be angry. I’m sorry; you deserve to know the truth. Come and sit down and let me explain it all to you.” He was pressed right up against me, seductive and warm, his hips fitting into mine and his hand curved over my waist, like he was pulling me in for a dance.  He dropped his head to trail his lips from my neck up to my ear and murmured, “I’m sorry, sweetheart.”

I let him lead me to the sofa, and he put our drinks on the coffee table before taking up my hand to kiss my palm. “I’ll tell you anything you want to know.”

My head whirled. I needed to know something true, something that I could test if I had to.

“Where were you born?”

There was a small pause before he said, “I was born in Pittsburgh.”

“Then why tell me it was Philadelphia?”

“Over the years I’ve almost come to convince myself it was. You see, when I first met him, I told Benny I was born in Philly and grew up in New York. I fancied it sounded better that way. ”

Of course he’d said that. Of course. I laughed, and he flushed a little across the nose. I wanted to hurt him, make him knotted up inside like I was. “You’ll never be an equal in his eyes. Why even bother putting on your airs and graces? You’re just another dirty American mutt to him in the end, no matter how special he might treat you.”

“I suppose you’re right,” he said. His conciliatory smile only made me madder.

“Of course I’m right. Why, you’re his trained monkey, dressed up in a tuxedo, driving him around in his—” I stopped. The air rushed out of me. Driving Lord Cumberbatch around town. When I’d seen Karl at the town car, he’d been arguing with the driver. Cumberbatch would never drive himself if he could have someone do it for him, and certainly not on American roads. Zach was always in the driver’s seat.

Zach took my hands again, tight, and I looked down at my wrists where my diamond cufflinks glinted in the light. I wore them always, ever since he’d given them to me. We’d taken to calling them the Fitzgerald cufflinks, after the story I’d shared. I’d told him about meeting my idol, and not a week later Karl was buttering me up in Schwab’s, telling me some rag wanted my Gatsbian style of writing.

I felt sick to my stomach. How stupid I’d been the whole damn time. And even if I asked him outright, he wouldn’t tell me what he’d been doing arguing with Karl. He’d improvise a new melody, just like a skilled jazz player. No wonder he liked the music so much. I yanked my hands from his, and he looked wary.

I said slowly, “The interview was a set-up. I got it out of my agent today; he was in debt to Cumberbatch. Did you have anything to do with that?”

“You’ll remember I asked you not to go,” he said pointedly. “If only you’d obeyed me. But you didn’t obey me.”

I wavered in my doubt. There was no embellishment to his answer, no attempts at endearment.

“Did he send you in as a lure, that very first time we met in the bar?”

His brow creased like he was in pain. “No, and I’m sorry if you’ve been given cause to think that. I won’t say I’ve thought sometimes it might have been better if we’d never met, but…”

“But what?”

“But I could never wish for it. I’m not sorry we met, and if that makes me a cad, then so be it.” He cupped my face and gave me a tentative smile.

I pulled back. “You’re telling me it was just a coincidence? That us meeting was unrelated to Cumberbatch seeing me on the street somewhere—deciding he liked the look of my face—no, Quinto, it won’t do. You’ll have to come up with something better than that.”

He took out his cigarette case and busied himself lighting a Gauloise. “Alright,” he said at last, and then took a long drag. “You’re quite right; it wasn’t _entirely_ a coincidence. Benny was on the look out for a new…addition. He’d been asking around. I’d even heard your name floated.”

“Then why—”

“I didn’t realize you were _you_ ,” he snapped. “I didn’t catch your name the first time we…And when you told me, I was—I was already—” He stabbed out his half-smoked cigarette, grinding it until the tobacco leaves spilled out. “I was already head over heels for you,” he finished quietly. “I was trying to protect you. I wanted you with me so I could keep you safe.”

Keep me locked up tight like Rapunzel in her tower. I bristled at the idea. “But you knew he was watching you.”

His hand clasped mine again. “Sure,” he said. “Sure, I knew that. He likes to keep an eye on me, and when I started coming out here so often, he wondered why. Of course I lied some of the time; told him I was going out to parties, film premieres. I still thought I might be able to keep you secret from him. It wasn’t a perfect plan, I’ll grant you that, but it seemed better than the alternative.”

But there was still something—ah, yes. I tossed back my bourbon, finding that I needed it after all.

“And how’d he know which strings to pull to make the marionette dance? My agent laid on the Gatsby line thick and fast.”

“How should I know? Perhaps your agent knew you liked Fitzgerald. You don’t make a secret of it.”

Maybe. Maybe I’d mentioned it to Karl in the past. In the early days of our acquaintance we’d gone out drinking sometimes, and I’d talked to him of my ambitions. I might have told him how I admired Fitzgerald. But how could I be sure? Quinto went to so much trouble perfecting his mask that even now I couldn’t know if he was telling the truth.

He’d been so uncharacteristic with his slip of the tongue that day when he’d asked me to ditch the interview. _Stay away from Lord Cumberbatch_ , he’d said, when I’d never told him the name. But I knew him better now. When he wanted to keep a secret, by God, he kept it.

 _Stay away from Lord Cumberbatch_. The way he gasped and bit his lip after, like he’d let something out he shouldn’t’ve—a little too pat, perhaps? Too rehearsed? I’d asked how he knew the name and I remembered his weak response: _There are only so many émigré aristocrats in this city_.

I’d smelled a stink about the answer even then. And hadn’t he trusted me more easily than he should have, my bluff phone call to cancel the interview? He’d never even mentioned it again in the days following, never warned me or reminded me what was at stake. And _surely_ —

“You _must_ have known the interview was still on,” I said.

“I had no idea. Benny doesn’t divulge his plans to me, and we live quite separate lives. Like you say, I’m a dirty American mutt to him. My privilege only extends so far.”

My eyes dropped to his tie, to its embroidered crest. “Old school tie, huh? What school is that?” I asked.

“What does it matter?”

“What school is that?” I repeated doggedly. I was starting to punch through now.

He snapped, “It’s Harrow, if you must know.”

I flicked at his tie with derision. “Harrow, you say? Never heard of Harrow, not this side of the sea, anyway.” The look he sent me was cold enough to give frostbite, but I kept on. “Tell me, Quinto: is this _his_ tie?” I gave it a little tug and he yanked it out of my fingers.

“What the devil does it _matter_?” he said again.

I pressed my advantage. “Dressing up in his clothes, carting around his cigarette case like it’s your own. I’d say you have your share of privileges from dear old Benny.” He said nothing, only smoothed down his tie where I’d disheveled it. “So let’s hear it, Quinto. Your master wants me for something.”

He took that jab square on the chin. “Yes. He does.”

“He wants to _collect_ me.”

“He wants you…” He took out another cigarette and tapped it on the case before finishing: “…for _me_.” I wasn’t sure what he meant, but I didn’t ask. He waited expectantly, but then lit up, sighed out a plume of smoke and went on. “It’s not as though I’m happy about it either. But he thinks you’d be good to have around as—as protection.”

“Protection? If he wants protection for you, I’ll introduce him to the Weller Boys.”

“You don’t understand. Not that kind of protection.”

“Then what?”

He made an irritated sweep through his hair and glared at me. “From temptation, I suppose.”

Things suddenly seemed very clear to me. Cumberbatch was not as dumb as I’d made him out to be. He knew all about me. More to the point, he knew he couldn’t stop Zach pulling at his leash, seeing how far away he could get from his owner before being dragged back and whipped. So why not control what _could_ be controlled?

“I see,” I said. “It’s an approved place for you to put your pecker. That’s what he’s been looking for.”

Zach shot me a petulant look.

“Does he allow you one in every city? Does he have an audition for all of them, like I auditioned last night? But then maybe you don’t want me, if I’ve been given the nod by his Lordship. Maybe you only wanted me when I was your dirty little secret.” I couldn’t help goading him, though I could see he was simmering.

“Don’t say that. I adore you, and that won’t change just because Benny suspects something. You have my heart. You know that.”

“I _don’t_ know that.” As for my heart, it was breaking.

I thought about Alice again, and her warning to me.  I thought about the way Quinto had lied to me, and used me ill. And I thought about the fact that I loved him, because I still did, and I couldn’t see an end to it. I didn’t trust him, but oh, how I loved him. Not in some sweet fairytale way, and certainly not in any wholesome, Christian sense. No patience, no kindness, no self control. I _wanted_ him, this man who had willingly imprisoned himself. I wanted to unlock the cage for him and see what might happen to the lion tamer standing nearby with his whip.

But I still wanted my own freedom more.

“You might be rattling the bars of your cell, Quinto, but you’re still in it. I’m not, and I’m not getting into it with you,” I said. “Whatever he’s thinking of, whatever _you’re_ thinking of, I won’t do it.”

“He’ll punish me.”

“Then leave him.”

“I _can’t_ leave him.”

“Then he’ll punish you,” I said simply. “I can’t do this for you.” My stomach was cramping, and I needed another bourbon. I wanted to be soaked. I wanted a world drenched in amber, a world on the edge of oblivion. But I couldn’t get sloppy, not ’til we’d had this out.

He spread his arms out and gave me an imperious glare. “I have done all of this for you. I’ve given you a place to live, a place to work. To write. To be great, and you _will_ be great, just like Fitzgerald—”

“Quit it,” I said, annoyed. “You’ve drawn from that well too many times, buddy, and it’s run dry. Listen, I know exactly what you’ve done for me: you’ve made me your whore. The whole time, since you met me, you’ve been prodding me along that path, and last night showed me exactly where it leads. No deal.” I stood up; I had to get away from him. I was drawn inevitably to the bar.

He followed me, swapping his angle. “Don’t you think I’d leave him if I could? There are—there are circumstances that bind me to him. If I could leave, I would. Don’t you know, sweetheart? It’s you, only you. Always you. We’re so wonderful together—”

“Are we?” I gave a dark chuckle and eyed the bourbon. “Half the time you’re trying to kill me when we fuck, and the other half I can’t get it up. What’s so wonderful about that?”

“Please. Chris, _please_.”

He sounded so heartbroken I nearly relented. I knew if I looked at him I’d fold smooth as one of his silk handkerchiefs, so I busied myself making a drink. I shook my head. “It was always going to end with a bang,” I told him over my shoulder, dropping ice into the tumbler. “That bang last night seems big enough, and I sure don’t plan to whimper for you anymore. So let’s shake hands and exit the field like gentlemen. Isn’t that what you like to think you are?” I turned to grin at him, drink in my hand.

He stared at me for a long moment, and then drew himself up to height and tightened the knot of his tie. “You’re quite right,” he said, using that affected half-and-half accent I hated on him. “Might as well quit while we’re ahead.”

It was the exact thing the Magnolia Girl had advised, and it made me narrow my eyes to hear his echo. Maybe he’d been listening. It didn’t matter, though, did it? We were done. The jazz record finished and began to crackle and click as it spun on, but we both ignored it.

“I’ll move out pronto,” I said.

“Please take your time. I won’t bother you again while you’re here.”

He took it awful well for someone who’d been declaring his heart just a few moments ago, and I almost made a snide comment about it. But he couldn’t look me in the eye anymore, and his hands shook as he reached for his coat. He pulled it on and took up his hat, clutching it in front of him like a shield as he turned at the front door.

“Goodbye,” he said, stilted and lofty, looking past my shoulder. “It’s been a pleasure.”

I don’t know what came over me. “Later, ’gator,” I drawled. He left, but not before I saw him flinch.

In the ashtray, his forgotten Gauloise smoldered on. I watched until it burned itself away and collapsed to ash.

 

 


	7. In a Lonely Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a fool, thinking I could outrun fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Gagging, Painful sex.
> 
> A/N: I'm back at work after a break, so chapters will be coming out less rapidly. But still regularly!

I needed to find a new place to live, and it didn’t seem to me that Karl was likely to give me one of the bedsits he sometimes rented out dirt-cheap to his clients in a jam—not after our last encounter. Perhaps the nearby Chateau Élysée would put me up for a month, if I could scrape together the dough. The money from Quinto seemed to have trickled through my fingers like sand. So late next afternoon I took myself off to Johnny Cho’s, hoping I could encourage his good nature and get a tip on a horse.

Before I reached the tailor, though, I caught sight of the Weller Boys huddled around a streetlight like a murder of crows. They weren’t often in this neighborhood, not for business anyway. Johnny took bets from them same as anyone, but he didn’t put up with them hanging about and scaring off his customers.

They were the last mob _I_ wanted to see. It seemed to me it was about time to make another donation towards reducing my mountain of debt to Weller, but the only cash I had on me was what I hoped to multiply on the horses. I slowed down, hoping to change direction unnoticed, but the gang must’ve caught the scent of fear because they looked around. They grinned when they saw me.

I rabbited; no point waiting around for trouble. They were fast, though, and the chase ended with me cornered in a dead-end alley.

“Come on, fellas,” I pleaded, gulping for air. “Gimme a break. I’m good for it. How much is he asking?”

“No dice,” the head goon said, and cracked his knuckles. “Sorry, but we got our orders.”

There were five of them, and one of me. I’d been on the receiving end of a beating from these boys a couple of times, and I knew what would happen if I resisted.  I held up my hands. “Aw, just get it over with.”

The first guy socked me square in the gut and I doubled over, gasping. I saw one of them take aim at my nose next, and dodged too slow. He got me in the jaw, but seemed to have a light touch that day since my lip split, but I kept my teeth.

“Hey, watch the puss, remember?” one of them muttered, and the next fist landed in the small of my back. It felt like my kidney had exploded. I heard someone screaming like a newborn and figured it was me. Hands grabbed my shirt and I was slammed into a brick wall.

“Gentlemen,” said a stentorian, chilly voice, and all at once the pummeling stopped. I slid down the bricks until I met the ground, and looked up. “These are dangerous streets indeed.”

It was Cumberbatch, with Quinto skulking behind him like an infernal shadow.

“Beat it, pal,” the head bruiser spat. “He owes big and it’s been coming for some time. Ain’t it?” He glared at me, and I blinked up at him.

“It sure has,” I said.  There was no doubt in my mind that I was safer in a back alley with these five thugs than I was anywhere near Lord Benedict Cumberbatch. “So let’s get on with it.” I struggled up, and Zach gave a little cry of distress at the sight of me. I ignored him.

“From my understanding, these issues usually come down to money,” Cumberbatch said.

“Sorry, bud, money won’t fix this one. We got specific orders. This ain’t your business, anyways. Get outta here, or we’ll bury you east of the city.”

“Let Mr. Weller know that Lord Benedict Cumberbatch has honored the debt. I’m sure he will indulge me.” All at once, like his name was a password, the hoods were interested in what he had to say. I knew then that I’d been set up: I was being collected. I laughed a helpless, mirthless laugh. What a fool, thinking I could outrun fate.

Cumberbatch looked me over before turning back to the gang leader. “How much?” He reached out his hand to the side, and Zach put a roll of bills into it, the thickest wad of green I’d ever laid eyes on. I didn’t even recognize the President on the notes.

“Well, now. I’d say maybe a grand to make a dent in it,” the goon said, his eyes fixed on the cash.

“You misunderstand,” Cumberbatch said impatiently. “How much does he owe in total?”

The bozo couldn’t seem to speak past his surprise, so I said the round figure, hoping Cumberbatch would see it was out of the question. Even some of the thugs seemed surprised at the amount, but Cumberbatch didn’t twitch an eyelid. He peeled off bill after bill, the crackle of the notes the only sound in the alleyway apart from the hiss of steam coming from an overhead vent, and then he slowly added five more on top. “For you and your associates,” he told the goon in charge. “By way of thanking you for your understanding.”

All I saw in that wedge of cash was my freedom sliding out of my grasp. “No,” I said. “I don’t want your money.”

“I am not giving it to _you_ ,” Cumberbatch said, without even glancing my way, “but to these gentlemen.” The goon grabbed it and looked at it like he couldn’t quite believe it. I thought for a second he’d give it a sniff, see if it was real.

“Don’t take it,” I said to him. “Tell Weller I’ll pay him back, I will, and you can rough me over, just don’t take that money.”

They ignored me, of course, and left the alley tickled pink with their cut. Zach hurried to help me up. He gave me a beseeching look as he brushed me off.

“Don’t give me those cow eyes,” I growled.

“Is that American for _thank you_?” Cumberbatch asked. “If so, it was my pleasure. Now, I suggest you come with us before those lads decide they’d like a little more than was offered.”

Zach helped me down the alley as though I were really injured and as though he were really worried about me. I tried to push his hands off, but he came back insistently until it seemed less trouble just to let him. Cumberbatch strode ahead of us and waited by the town car with an irritable air.

“I never wanted this for you,” Zach murmured in my ear. His clothes, as he pulled me along, were redolent with tobacco. “Believe me, sweetheart, it wasn’t my idea. I told him I’d stopped seeing you when I got home but—”

“Shut your mouth,” I snarled back. “You think I’d ever let you fool me again?”

He tugged me closer. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“Do hurry up,” Cumberbatch called at us.

The car was parked carelessly, blocking a fire hydrant and up on the curve of the corner. Zach opened the back door for us.

“In,” Cumberbatch said, and shoved me so I sprawled across the backseat, gasping a little at the pain in my side. He barely waited for me to right myself before sliding in after me. Zach got behind the wheel, and away we drove.

The silence became oppressive, so I cleared my throat and said, “I didn’t ask for your help.”

I got a warning glance from Zach in the rearview mirror, but no response from Cumberbatch, who was staring out the window, one finger stroking his mustache thoughtfully.

“You didn’t have to do that,” I tried again. “And—”

“No,” Cumberbatch said. “I didn’t.” He turned to me and smiled, that cold smile that make my bowels quiver.

We came to a halt at a traffic light.  I asked, “Where are we going?”

“For a drink.” Cumberbatch was still smiling that smile. “At Chateau Marmont. Isn’t that where you like to drink, Christopher?”

My body couldn’t seem to decide whether it was more desperate for a drink or to get away from the man beside me. My choice had been made for me, anyway. A little ways down the street I could see the Chateau Marmont sign glowing in the dusk.

“We may as well go around to your bungalow,” Cumberbatch suggested. “For privacy.”

My heart was crashing about in my chest, thumping so hard my tongue throbbed with it. Zach drove on past the main entrance and turned up the road behind the hotel, then right again, slowing as he made his way down the tight lane. He pulled up and parked. I could hear a slight ticking as the engine cooled, and an agitated honk from down on Sunset.

“Zachary?”

All it took was one word from Cumberbatch and Zach jumped to attention, sliding out of the car and opening his door so the Englishman could climb out. I opened my own door on the other side, and tried to read Zach’s expression over the car roof while Cumberbatch’s back was still turned. Nothing doing; Zach kept his eyes down and wouldn’t look at me.

“It’s in here, I believe?” Cumberbatch indicated the gate, the familiar number 4 on the post, and looked at me for confirmation.

I nodded at the ground. We traipsed in a sad little cavalcade after Cumberbatch, and Zach unlocked the door of the bungalow. He stood back to let Cumberbatch in first, which made me mad as hell. Like he owned the joint as much as he owned the town car in the street, or his mansion in Bel-Air, or the fine clothes Zach liked to dress up in. Like he owned Zach himself.

“Why don’t you sit down?” he suggested, after arranging his jacket and polka-dotted cravat carefully on a dining chair. He looked around, his eyebrows raised. “What an appallingly tawdry little shack. I’ll fix us a drink. No, not there—” He frowned at Zach as he made towards the single chair. “—yes, you and Christopher sit on that couch together. God, but what a ghastly piece of furniture it is.”

“Vladimir Kagan,” Zach said, unexpectedly, as he settled beside me.

“What?” The Englishman paused, ice tongs in hand, and frowned at Zach.

“It’s a Kagan sofa. He’s a designer from New York City.”

“I will never understand your fascination with vulgar modernism, Zach,” Cumberbatch sighed, and handed me a bourbon stuffed full of ice. “Really, you have every luxury at home, yet this is where you choose to spend your time. For Christ’s sake, you could at least put your whores up in something with a little elegance. Although I suppose nowhere in this godforsaken city could possibly qualify as elegant, could it?” He gave Zach a scotch and clinked their glasses together, still standing over us. “Could it?”

“No,” Zach said quietly. “No, I suppose not.”

Cumberbatch sat opposite us in the single chair, sipping at his drink and watching us like zoo animals. Zach set his down untouched on the coffee table, and I nursed mine.

“Well, now,” Cumberbatch said at last. “Isn’t this pleasant?” When neither of us replied, he tried again. “Zachary. Isn’t this pleasant?”

“Very pleasant, Benny.”

“Did you want more ice in your bourbon, Chris?”

“It’s fine. Thanks.”

“You haven’t even wet your lips.”

I took a swallow of it as best I could past the ice.

“Cheers,” Cumberbatch said, and leaned forward to clink his crystal tumbler against mine this time. “And now that we’ve drunk together, I can make my proposal.” He looked at me expectantly, waiting for me to respond, but I just took another sip of my too-cold drink. “My, you’re both very quiet today. It will be up to me to carry the conversation.”

A gust of wind blew threw the back yard, lifting up dead leaves in a whirligig. The sun was giving up the ghost for the day, sending a last brash red glow through the windows. Zach fished his cigarette case out of an inner pocket and placed a Gauloise between his lips. He patted himself down, but couldn’t seem to find a light. There were several Marmont matchbooks fanned neatly by the ashtray, but he didn’t seem to notice. After a moment, he put the cigarette back in the case.

Cumberbatch said: “Christopher, I have a suggestion. I thought, since we all get on so well together, that you could come and stay as a house guest.”

I just about inhaled my mouthful of icy bourbon. “What?” I croaked, when I’d cleared my airpipes. “What did you say?”

“I thought,” Cumberbatch repeated, “that you could come home with us and stay as a house guest.”

I wiped at my mouth. “For how long?”

“The invitation is open-ended.”

Under the coffee table, Zach put the toe of his shoe on my foot and pressed down. I made no reply. Cumberbatch sat back in the lounge and peered at us through half-closed lids.

“You make a lovely couple,” he said. “Aesthetically, you’re very pleasing. I enjoy looking at you both.”

Zach let out a long sigh, and his hand descended on my knee. I jumped, and looked at him. With his other hand, he took my drink from me and set it down on the coffee table. His fingers crept higher up my thigh, and he met my eyes.  I couldn’t move. I felt like the smallest gesture would set off a bomb. Zach palmed my face and drew me in to kiss. It must have been like kissing a corpse; I was unmoving and my lips were cold. He gave my lower lip a nibble, which got my mouth moving at least.

“Please,” he whispered, and I thought about him being whipped, and about me getting roughed up in a back alley. I thought about Cumberbatch paying off my debt as cool as a cucumber, and now he owned me as surely as he owned Karl and Zach and God knew who else.

I thought about the fact that he was on speaking terms with Pete Weller and his boys. For now, at least, it seemed the safer bet to give in. Like Karl, I was fond of my neck.

“Yeah, alright,” I muttered.

Zach pulled back and gave me a sweet smile, sweeter than seemed appropriate for the situation. He flicked his eyes to the side. “Benny?”

“Oh, in the bedroom, I think. I’d rather not have that hideous couch in the background.”

Zach pressed his lips together, but said nothing. He stood and offered a hand to help me up as well. Cumberbatch sprang up, and stalked ahead of us into the bedroom. “Go on, now,” Zach said to me, and gave me a little push. “I’ll be right there.”

Cumberbatch had seated himself in the chair opposite the bed, his legs crossed and his fingers steepled in front of his mouth. He watched me as I tugged at my necktie and picked at my shirt buttons. I avoided his gaze. From the lounge I heard the opening drum-sizzle of the Miles Davis album. It was the song that scored my fight last night with Zach, and I’d never wanted to hear it again. From the corner of my eye I saw Cumberbatch grimace at the first searing trumpet note, and decided I could stand to hear it another time after all.

When Zach came in he grabbed my hands to stop me undressing. He wanted to do it himself, it turned out, and the first thing he did after he got me to my undershirt was bind my eyes with my tie so I couldn’t see a damn thing. But I was grateful to him, because it made it easier for me while he kept stripping me. I could pretend we didn’t have an audience. I could pretend it was just the two of us when he laid me down on my back, with my head at the foot of the bed, and hiked my knees up; just us when he kissed his way down my inner thigh; just us when I felt his warm breath against my balls and then his lips on my cockhead.

“No.”

Zach went immobile at the word. I was hard—harder than I’d been for some time—and I wanted his mouth; I wanted, too, to demand from Cumberbatch just who’d made _him_ choreographer. But I kept quiet.

“Move along,” Cumberbatch said, and I felt Zach sit up, twisting across the bed for something. A smear of Vaseline on my hole made me jump, followed by a drizzle of the oil he favored. He gave me a swift fingering and I tried not to bite my lip too much, worried it would split open again. When I concentrated in the break between songs, I could hear breathing. It wasn’t coming from Zach. I could smell scotch whisky now and then, wafting across like a zephyr.

Cumberbatch said again: “Move. Along.”

The only warning I got from Zach was the way he gripped my hips to yank me onto him, and I gave a bark of pain. I went soft again, and balled the bedcovers in my hands with frustration. Zach stalled, let me adjust, but it only prompted another command.

“Continue.”

“Just a _minute_.” It was the first time I’d heard Zach sound so sharp. Apparently it was the first time the Marquess of Holford had heard it, too.

“I _beg_ your pardon?”

I shivered.

“Just give me a minute, goddamn it,” Zach muttered. “He’s tight. Real tight.”

I heard Cumberbatch stand up.

“Okay, _alright_ ,” Zach said, and I didn’t like the hurried way he said it. “Don’t do that. Look, I’m…” He pushed in deeper, and I yelped. The pain was too much. I felt like I was on fire, a cold fire. “I told you, he’s too tight yet. He’ll get loud.”

“I don’t care if he howls his lungs out.”

“Maybe you don’t, but the neighbors do. They’ll complain, and then—”

“Very well,” Cumberbatch snapped, and I heard him leave the room.

“Damn it,” Zach said quietly, and batted away my hands as I reached up to take off my blindfold. “No, leave it. He’ll be back.” He reached between us to rub my belly, massaging like it’d help me accommodate my gutful of cock. His hand brushed my prick, which started to recover. “Just do what he wants. It’ll be over soon. And sweetheart—it really wasn’t my idea. I want you to know that.”

“Oh, yeah? I guess you didn’t tell him all about bungalow number four at Chateau Marmont, either, huh? He just followed his nose right to the door?”

He leaned down and kissed me, his mouth brushing soft as velvet over my split lip, and then said in my ear, “I didn’t tell him, dear heart.”

I ignored that and said instead, “It’s sick, him watching like this.”

“Just one last…” His voice died, and I felt a current of air as Cumberbatch came back to the bed.

“Here. We can use this. Hold him.”

“He won’t take it, Benny.” But even as Zach said it I could feel his prick swelling inside me, and he grabbed my wrists hard when instructed. Whatever it was, the idea excited him. I bit the inside of my cheek hard, trying to distract from the pain with more pain.

“Of course he’ll take it,” Cumberbatch said. Something ran along my lips and I flinched. For a horrible moment I thought it was—but no, it was only a finger. Not Zach’s. It was drenched in scotch. “You’ll take whatever we give you, won’t you Christopher?”

It felt like we were all stuck in time until I did what I had to do, and obediently suckled at his finger.

“You see?” Cumberbatch said. I didn’t have to be able to see to know what kind of cold smile he was wearing. The finger withdrew. “Why, I could ask him to service me with his mouth while you fucked him, and he would. Wouldn’t you, Christopher?”

What else could I do? I nodded.

“But that would never happen, would it?” Zach said, his voice so soft I barely heard it. I heard the crack that followed, a sudden collision of hand with cheekbone if I wasn’t mistaken. The next thing I knew, something soft was being shoved in my mouth, wadded in until my jaw was wide around it and my tongue completely depressed.  

All I could taste and smell was expensive, cloying cologne. Cumberbatch’s scent. I tried desperately to spit out whatever it was, but it was already soaked and heavy and it wouldn’t budge. Fear coursed through me and I started to struggle, writhing around and clamping down on Zach as I did. It made me hurt worse, but Zach grunted in pleasure, before panting, “He can’t breathe, Benny, he’s going to—”

“No, he’s not,” Cumberbatch said, and he grabbed a fistful of my hair, yanking until I stretched my chin back, extending my neck. “Stop panicking,” he told me. “Stop panicking and breathe through your nose.”

I couldn’t move without hurting, so I did as I was told, and I found I could breathe okay after all, if I concentrated on it. Zach let go my wrists and instead threaded his fingers through mine.

“You see?” Cumberbatch said. “Now, if you’re quite ready, perhaps we can get on with this. I’m sure he’s accommodated you by now, so there’s no need to show any restraint.”

Zach squeezed my hands, and I squeezed back. It was the last tender gesture I had from him. He pushed my hands down on to the bed and began to pound into me, and there was something in what Cumberbatch had said; I’d adjusted enough so it didn’t feel like I was being split in two. But that was small comfort. Zach was going at me with frenzied dedication, trying to complete as soon as he could. I could hear his breathing in concert with Cumberbatch’s harsh pants, and I wondered if the Englishman was working himself as he watched. The thought sickened me, but in the same way I’d felt an erotic repulsion at getting under the table in the jazz club and sucking on Zach’s cock. I was so _full_ , both holes stuffed to the brim with them. And I was helpless: sightless, voiceless, anchored to the bed.

It’d been about fifty-fifty whether I’d got up the last few weeks I’d been with Zach, and I’d done better on his tongue than getting rammed like I was now.  Wouldn’t you know it, though, I was rock solid and dripping steadily under Zach’s onslaught. Each thrust was moving me further down the bed, further towards Cumberbatch in his chair, further towards my own release. I was moaning in the back of my throat, and Zach was grinding in a familiar rhythm, pressing down so hard on my hands that my fingers felt numb. Sparks turned to flares, and then a wave ran right through me, and I keened so loud despite my mouth being blocked, I was sure the Magnolia Girl must have heard me from her bungalow.

“Benny,” Zach gasped, “oh, Benny, look. Do you see that? Look at him, he’s blasting without a single finger touching him. God, look at him go—”

My senses were dimmed, but I couldn’t miss the tremendous clatter that must have been the chair falling over. I flinched, expecting some touch or other, or maybe Cumberbatch was going to blow his load on me—the thought thrilled me with disgust, made me clench on Zach again through a last quiver of my climax, and that finished him off too. He cried out, and at the same time I heard the screeching of a record needle from the other room, the abrupt cessation of the jubilant trumpet crescendo, and then a sharp cracking, splintering sound.

Zach pulled out of me roughly, before he even finished unloading, and scrambled off the bed. I raised shaky, non-cooperative fingers to pull out the gag, coughing and retching.  When I pushed up my blindfold I saw it was Cumberbatch’s polka-dotted cravat in my hand, ruined and chewed and soaked.

I was alone in the bedroom.

“I couldn’t stand that cacophony any longer,” Cumberbatch said, coming back through the doorway, and he plucked his sodden scarf from my hands. “Thank you, Christopher. That was most agreeable. Make sure you pack everything you’ll need for an extended stay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

I managed to sit up after he swept out, and heard him say, “Are you coming, Zachary? No? Suit yourself. I shall order a cab.”

I dragged on my robe and made my way to the lounge. Zach was on his knees, naked and shining with perspiration in the electric light. In his hand was a shard of the vinyl record. The rest of the pieces were scattered over the carpet next to the turntable.

I crouched next to him and put a hand on his shoulder. He stank of sweat and sex; I must have stunk worse, but he looked like he was beyond such mortal concerns. His face was expressionless but lit up from inside with some kind of mania. I’d never seen him look like this before, and it scared me.

“You can buy another,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

He laughed, high-pitched and just this side of hysteria. “Oh, sure. That’s always the solution, isn’t it? Just buy another. Buy whatever I need. The Cumberbatch fortune grants my every wish and whim. It protects me from the _hoi polloi_.”

There was a red mark across his cheekbone where he’d been slapped around. It made me feel motherly all of a sudden, and I took him by the chin to turn his face. I pressed my fingers gently to his cheek, testing the hurt. He winced.

“I didn’t mean it that way,” I said. “Come and get cleaned up, will you? You’re scaring me.”

“I’ll kill him,” he whispered harshly. “I’ll kill him with my own two hands.”

“Over a record? Talk sense. He only broke it ’cause he was sore at you. He didn’t like getting left out of the action as much as he thought.”

“Is that how you figure it?”

“Sure, that’s how I figure it. It’s not natural, what he wants us to do. It’s not natural to watch your lover with someone else. Only a knucklehead would think he’d want to see that. It’s humiliating for him. Guess he finally realized that tonight.”

He pulled his chin out of my hand, irritated. “He was _punishing_ me.”

“Well, so what if he was? Don’t let him get under your skin.”

He shook his head. “You’re a damned fool, Pine.” Zach stood up and I stood with him, stung.

“Hey, now. There’s no call for that. I’m not the one who did you wrong tonight, and _you’re_ the one who got us both into this mess.”

He went to shower without saying another word, and I had to wait out the unpleasant dribbling down my thigh as best I could. I’d have to send my robe for laundering, I thought. And I’d have to do it quick, if I wanted to take it with me tomorrow. The idea filled me with dread, but sorrow too; the Chateau was the homiest place I’d ever had in LA though I’d lived in the city my whole life. Tomorrow I’d be stepping over the border into a different country altogether.

Of course it crossed my mind briefly to run, but the Weller Boys had contacts beyond Hollywood and ties to the Family. I wasn’t looking to cross any more crooks than I already had, that was for sure. Besides, I figured Quinto’s master would tire of me soon enough. As for what would happen then, I would cross that bridge when I floated under it.

I slept poorly that night, and Zach didn’t sleep at all. I found him in the morning sitting on the Kagan sofa in the same position he’d been in when I finally went to bed the night before. The skin around his left eye had a yellow sheen to it, and the mark on his cheekbone had darkened.

“You look like hell,” I said.

“You’re no oil painting yourself.” He was right about that; despite the Weller Boys’ restrained enthusiasm, my lip was swollen and scabbed with dry blood.

At least Zach’s sardonic reply sounded like he was back to normal. I packed up my possessions without fanfare. There was more of it this time than there had been for the move to the Chateau, but it still all fit tight in one suitcase, except the books and the typewriter. Zach said he’d ask Monsieur Anton to send them on.

“Damn it,” I said, holding up my robe. “Forgot to send it for cleaning. You get a laundry service at the mansion, right?”

He gave me an odd look. “Laundry service?”

“You mentioned it once. Or were you lying about every single little thing?”

“No,” he said, still cautious. “There’s a laundry service.”

“Well, can they clean my robe or can’t they?” I snapped.

He lit a cigarette. I wanted to throttle _him_ , for a change. Why did he insist on making every small thing into such a big deal?

“You may as well leave it here,” he said at last. “There are any number of robes at the house; you may have one of those. A new one daily, if you like.”

I threw it aside. “Golly gee whiz,” I said, “won’t I just feel like the luckiest man alive living in all that luxury.”

“I didn’t want it to be this way,” he said quietly, and the break in his voice made me swallow down on my sarcasm. I folded shirts and laid them in my suitcase.“Do you believe me?” he asked.

“What does it matter?”

“It matters to _me_. I can’t abide feeling like you mistrust me. I want to be your ally, not your enemy. You’ll need a friend, where we’re going. _I_ need a friend. And you—” He paused, and I glanced up at him. “You said you loved me.”

He sure _seemed_ honest, blinking on tears and his lips trembling. “A friend and a lover,” I said, for something to say. “I never know what to think about you, Quinto. Are you my friend? My lover? I don’t know.”

“I’m your slave,” he said. “Whether you know it or not.”

Pretty words. I snorted, and then said, “Well, why not? I guess I don’t have much choice in the matter. Sure, we’ll be friends, the very _best_ of friends.”

“When you’re done packing we can sign out,” he said, like he wanted to change the subject. “Unless…” I looked up. “Unless you want to keep it open. We could keep the bungalow open for us. For you.”

I shrugged.

“It’s your home,” he said softly, and I ground my teeth together.

I still couldn’t help myself, fool that I am. I couldn’t give up the fantasy I had in mind of me and him, happy and domestic, living the high life and loving rough as we pleased with no one standing over us.  “Alright. If you like. Maybe it won’t take long for the top cat to tire of the new mouse. And when he does, I can scurry back to my hole.”

“Perhaps. But once Benny’s made a new acquisition, he likes to keep it close. Get use out of it.”

“Don’t talk like that,” I said roughly, and slammed shut my suitcase. I locked the buckles. “He might think he’s collected me, but I have no intention of sitting around being _aesthetically pleasing_ to him, or whatever it is he wants.”

Zach didn’t bother replying. I guess he knew better than me what it was Lord Cumberbatch wanted from me.

 

 


	8. Sweet Smell of Success

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Doesn’t all this opulence make you feel a bit sick?” I asked.  
> “Why should it?”  
> “It’s not very American.” I gave him a sidelong look. “But then, neither are you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: Humiliation

Life at the mansion was not as dire as I’d been imagining, not at first.

Alice was upset to see me arrive, or I guessed she was, since she disappeared to her wing of the house soon as Cumberbatch told her I’d be staying awhile. Pegg followed her, and all his Lordship said to me was, “Where are the rest of your bags?” and then Zach and I were left to our own devices. Miles was nowhere to be seen, nor any other staff.

Where Chateau Marmont had been stuffed to the gills with staff making themselves scarce, the mansion was remarkably empty. I’d expected a battalion of servants but my footsteps echoed as we went up the grand staircase and down empty hallways. I felt I could go hours without seeing a soul. There was no dust to be seen but I couldn’t imagine Miles flitting around with a feather duster, or Pegg for that matter. There was a chef, of course, but I knew he lived downtown and came in as needed. Later I found out there were several cleaning maids, a housekeeper who kept the house stocked, and an ancient, half-blind gardener with a few underlings, but I only caught fleeting glimpses of any of them.

Then there were the houseboys. Miles was one of them; the other was Colton, a sulky-faced kid with dark hair styled like James Dean. He was more inclined than Miles to send me sidelong looks while he served me up potatoes at dinner.

However, since there was no one to take my bag for me when I arrived, I hoisted it myself. Zach took me to my room—the same one I’d stayed in before—and helped me unpack. “I don’t need a valet for one damn suitcase,” I said to him, but still he hovered.

I thought back to Zach’s dismissal of the valet idea the first night I’d ever come here. It didn’t seem right to me that a man like the Marquess of Holford, Lord Benedict Cumberbatch, would do for himself. Expected to dress himself, when he wouldn’t even fuck for himself?

I said as much to Zach, and he gave a small chuckle.

“Actually, you were right that first night you came here. I do help him dress, but not really as a valet. He likes my advice on fashion sometimes, and he finds it difficult to move too freely. War wounds, you know.”

“It’s odd, though, the lack of servants. A house this size should be swarming with them.”

“Benny doesn’t like to keep a large staff.”

“Where do they sleep?”

“They live offsite. All of them.”

“But—”

“For Christ’s sake, use your head,” he sighed. “Benny doesn’t want gossip getting out about him.  Think what your American papers would make of it. _Sodomite Peer Hoards Harem in City of Sin_.”

I considered him for a moment before I said, “ _My_ American papers? Are you angling to forget your Steel City roots?”

He flushed. “What’s got into you today? I thought we were going to be friends.”

“Maybe it’s being made part of a sodomite peer’s harem. Maybe that’s what’s got me antsy today.”

What had got into me was that the move had shocked sense back into me. Quinto was a liar; it was the one truth I knew about him. I needed to stay wary of him if I wanted to protect myself. I couldn’t see a way out of my hole, but I hadn’t yet given up hope of clambering free.

Zach’s face had turned hard. “Take some advice,” he said. “Get what you can, while you can. You think it’s a prison here, but it doesn’t have to be. Benny can be exceedingly generous to the people who please him.”

“So I’ve seen. I don’t like the strings attached.” I paused in my unpacking, staring into my suitcase. I’d left my oldest clothes behind me at the Chateau, and I had a strange, sudden sense of disconnect. What was all this that I stared at, neatly packed into one ratty suitcase? Silks and linens and fine wools lay before me, but surely this was not my life. My life was threadbare cotton, worn leather shoes and the one fine tweed jacket my father had left me—which, now I thought of it, I realized I’d left at the bungalow.

Quinto slithered up behind me and slipped cautious arms around my waist. “Not even this string?” he said into my neck, and I had to think for a moment what he meant.

“So you want to just pick up again. Is that it?” I wanted to wrench his hands off me, but I pulled him closer instead, and then turned in his arms. His face was close enough that I could see the fine lines around his eyes, the amber crystals in his iris. “You’ve got some kind of sorcery about you, Quinto,” I said with a sigh. “If I didn’t know better, I’d take you for a demon.”

“That’s not very flattering,” he said, and smiled. “If you’re tired of unpacking, we could christen the bed.”

“Wipe that simper off your face,” I told him, pushing him away. “I’ll take your advice and get what I can, while I can. And right now that means I’ve got writing to do.”

He was a superb actor. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, upset or rethinking his approach. He watched me set my notebook on the writing desk in the corner, ostentatiously straightening it.

“Well?” I said. “Anything else?”

“We should have brought your typewriter from the Chateau. I’ll make sure a new one is provided.” With that, he gave a little bow and left me alone.

I sat heavily in the chair behind the desk, wishing like hell I could stop loving him. It would make things much easier.

 

***

 

The typewriter appeared as promised. It was sitting on my desk the next day when I came out freshly showered from my _en suite_ bathroom. Part of me wanted to resist using it, as though spiting myself would somehow spite Zach, too. But I couldn’t stay away from it. The muse was on me, as wild a harpy as she’d ever been, and the story was bleeding out of me like I’d opened an artery on one of her claws. I’d first set out to write an answer to _Gatsby_ , show how the American Dream might still come to life, but I found my characters disinclined to happiness. They were a morose bunch, and beginning to tussle with each other. I was determined to give them a happy ending whether they wanted it or not, and so I spent my mornings as I had at the Chateau, bashing out words and ignoring the bottle until I felt I’d made progress.

I had little idea what Cumberbatch did all day, but he went out regularly and Zach often accompanied him. Sometimes there were deliveries to the house and I would watch blanketed objects being eased off the backs of trucks and into the house from my second-story window. I was surprised to learn that Zach and Cumberbatch had separate bedrooms, although they came off the same corridor.

Alice slept in the east wing of the house and had the whole show there to herself. One of the few times Cumberbatch spoke to me was to tell me I was forbidden from entering the east wing. I never knew where Pegg slept—or if he even did, for that matter. His one concern, when he wasn’t playing cards, was Alice. He was forever at her heels like a favorite bloodhound, and when she retired, he usually did too. I wouldn’t have been surprised to learn that he curled up on the foot of her bed overnight, one ear ever-pricked for danger.

Occasionally I heard music coming from Alice’s wing: waltzes, usually, or melancholy classical pieces. One morning I recognized Mozart’s Lacrimosa, the mournful notes drifting down the grand staircase and into the foyer where I paused to hear it. Alice sometimes spent the mornings in the parlor beyond the arch of the grand staircase, when the sun streamed in the French windows to light up even the darkest corners of the room, and in the second-floor library in the afternoons. She favored the drawing room after dinner. More often she was nowhere to be found, or not in the parts of the house in which I was allowed.

There were no televisions in the whole house. Cumberbatch loathed TV, of course. There was an ancient Victrola in the drawing room, and Zach was putting together a collection of records, though he never played them when the Englishman was about. A locked door in one corner caught my attention and didn’t let go ’til I’d asked about it one night.

“It’s a screening room,” Zach told me. “For films, you know. The previous owner of this house was a producer, or director, some Hollywood bigwig. I never know the difference.”

“We should show his Lordship what he’s missing out on,” I suggested, malice in my heart. “We could make a night of it, play him the best Hollywood has to offer. That would make him sit up, alright.”

Zach ignored my venom. “Benny doesn’t care for American cinema,” was all he said.

My first few days passed amiably enough in that usually-desolate mansion, and the nights as well once the theatre of dinner was over. We attended in formal attire and sat through it mostly in silence, unless Cumberbatch had made a new acquisition. In those cases we heard the history of the piece, and its provenance, and what he had paid for it. It was a time of day I grew to dread for the sheer boredom, although I did appreciate the food. The chef lived and breathed his work and the man was a marvel. I felt myself becoming sleek and plump gorging on his creations, like a prize pig being fattened up for market.

After the final course each night, when she judged an appropriate amount of time had passed, Alice would withdraw to where Pegg anxiously awaited her across the grand foyer in the drawing room. Cumberbatch and I would drink cognac or brandy as the mood struck him. Zach never touched a drop, but always made sure to pour our drinks. He was doping Cumberbatch on the regular. Not thirty minutes after the aristocrat’s second drink, he would be yawning and drowsy and need Zach’s help up to his bed.

Every night on Zach’s return downstairs we joined Alice and Pegg in the drawing room and the atmosphere distinctly changed.  We put on records and talked, or played cards and parlor games.

The three of them were trying to teach me bridge. They were mad for it, and I was happy enough to go along. We played for money, which made me nervous even though I was still being paid. A yellow envelope stuffed with bills had shown up on my writing desk on the usual day. I didn’t know what to make of that, but I didn’t see any point making a moral stance and rejecting the cash. I needed a nest egg, after all.

Pegg was savvy at cards, and was making a tidy income from our games. A tidy income off _me_ , in fact: he never let me get away with beginner’s mistakes like the other two. I was beginning to feel he had it in for me. But at the end of each night he was all smiles, and he’d pour me out a bourbon and pat me on the back.

“Nothing personal,” he’d assure me. “I just think the game should be played by the rules.” He was the strictest follower of rules I’d ever met, forever consulting a battered copy of _Hoyle’s Games_ for minutiae. The rest of us would sigh, and take a break for cigarettes or refilling drinks, while Pegg pedantically read aloud. I never told him when I saw Zach occasionally palm a card or sneak a glance at Pegg’s hand. It would have caused a row and besides, I was amused despite myself, even when I went down because of Zach’s cheating.  Sometimes Alice noticed it too, and we would twinkle at each other in shared mischief, keeping secrets together.

Yes indeed, we made a most convivial little family once Cumberbatch was out of the picture. Alice liked to go to bed earlier than Zach or I did, but I made sure to hurry off as soon as she retired, not wanting to linger alone with Zach. I could see it hurt him. There was hope in his eyes every time Alice bid us goodnight, and I dashed it every time I agreed it was late and time for bed.

I didn’t trust myself to be alone with him, you see.

But in fact, if it hadn’t been for the circumstances, I really might have considered myself a lucky man, living in that mansion with and with my every need satisfied—except for one. I’d expected Zach to front up in my bedroom one night and try it on, but he never did. He was painstakingly polite, even lavished attention upon me, but not once did he make a pass at me. To my own shame, I found myself missing him, missing his mouth on me and his hands; his fingers closing around my throat and wriggling their way inside me. My dreams were full of him and I woke with him on my mind.

Zach, who drew every eye wherever he walked, but seemed untouched by the gaze. I’d never seen him with other people like this. Our time spent together had been spent alone—in bed, mostly. The staff loved him, from the cleaners to the gardeners to the houseboys who drew the curtains in the morning and took in breakfast on a tray. They loved him, and so they loved me, or at least they pretended to. I wanted for nothing.

It was certainly easy to believe I was a houseguest instead of a prisoner.

 

***

 

All of that changed after lunch one day when Zach knocked on my bedroom door.

“He’s asking for you,” he said, immediately I opened it.

My temper rose at once, and I gave an insouciant shrug. “Let him ask. I’m not his court jester.”

Zach fidgeted, and wouldn’t meet my eyes.

“Anything else?” I asked coldly. “I’m working.”

“Writing?”

“Yes.”

“May I see?”

He made to push the door wider, but I pulled it close to myself, blocking his way into the room. “Shouldn’t you be catering to his Lordship’s whims?”

He colored. “If it’s all the same to you, friend, I’d like to at least pretend I tried to persuade you. Won’t you let me wait with you for five minutes?”

I sized him up for a moment, but then let him in and went silently back to my desk to continue where I’d left off. He watched me over my shoulder before picking up a few draft pages and looking through them.

“You’re making the most of your time here. This is excellent.” I didn’t reply. He sighed, and restacked the pages. “I’ll leave you alone. Good afternoon.”

“Wait,” I snapped as he reached the door. He paused with his hand on the knob. “What does he…” I couldn’t say the words, but he understood.

“I don’t know. I told him I wouldn’t—wouldn’t _take_ you anymore. Not like I did before. I made that quite clear.”

I rubbed my knuckles hard in my eyes and thought it through. Zach was the carrot, but I knew Cumberbatch was just as happy to use the stick. “Alright,” I said.

“Please don’t do this for _my_ sake—”

My snort of contempt cut him off. “Don’t insult me. Let’s go, before I change my mind.”

He stopped me in the doorway, his face pale. “I didn’t want it to be this way.”

“So you’ve said.” I pushed past him and he followed me to Cumberbatch’s rooms.

The bedchambers of the Marquess of Holford were larger than any man would ever need. The door opened into a massive room that I could see wound its way around the whole side of the building so that it afforded views of the front and side of the estate. To my right, bookshelves stretched floor to ceiling, filled with formidable tomes with dull titles. I saw five leather-bound volumes of _Macaulay’s History of England_ from the corner of my eye, and something about Michelangelo. Mostly, though, I stared at the bed against the opposite wall: a giant four-poster that I imagined would be better at home in Buckingham Palace. Zach saw me gawking and said, “Benny had it shipped here from home. Said he couldn’t bear sleeping in any bed but his own.” There was admiration in his tone.

“Doesn’t all this opulence make you feel a bit sick?” I asked.

“Why should it?”

“It’s not very American.” I gave him a sidelong look. “But then, neither are you.”

He looked like he wanted to say something, but didn’t.

“No, this isn’t right,” I muttered, looking around. I couldn’t articulate myself any better. What I meant, I know now, is that no man should have such comfort and luxury around him yet feel the need to be so unkind to others. I’d never thought of myself as a Red, but Cumberbatch’s sickening displays of advantage were turning me more colors than I’d ever thought possible.

I turned to Zach. “It’s like what Fitzgerald said, that the rich are different. _They possess and enjoy early, and it does something to them_ —”

“Fitzgerald again?” Zach interrupted with a sad smile, and took my hand in his own. “Come on. Benny doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”

I let him take me through a door in the far wall, which led to a walkthrough chamber filled with suits and shirts and shoes. Beyond this was the adjoining bathroom, decorated in deep rich mahoganies and bronzes. A crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling and the bath, in the middle of the room, was a claw-footed copper monstrosity rising up like a leviathan from the floorboards. A sheepskin rug was laid out before it and my toes quivered in anticipation within my shoes as I imagined how it would feel on bare feet.

It took me a moment to see Cumberbatch. He was seated a few feet away from the bath in a wing-backed Regency armchair, its silk upholstery faded but still beautiful. He had crossed one long leg over the other and rested his elbows on the arms of the chair so that his fingers touched together at chest level.

“You _have_ been an age,” he said.

“Sorry, Benny,” Zach said automatically.

“I was busy,” I drawled. “Writing.”

The Englishman drew in a breath through his nose and closed his eyes, as though willing himself to control his temper.

“Sometimes,” he said at last, and I tensed. “Sometimes Zach enjoys relaxing in a bathtub. He has one in his own room, of course, but he also likes to chat while he bathes. Don’t you, Zach?”

“Yes, Benny.”

“This room is more conducive to conversation and so, you see, I invite him to bathe here from time to time.”

“Well,” I said, my muscles still tight, “that’s very generous of you. I can see that you like to share your…your good fortune with others.”

He opened his eyes to regard me, and I twitched. “My good fortune,” he repeated, as though it amused him. “Be a good chap and run a bath for Zach. Make sure it’s steaming. He likes it hot.”

I made to roll up my shirtsleeves, and in doing so had to remove my Fitzgerald cufflinks. I looked around for a place to set them down.

“Here,” Cumberbatch said, and indicated the elegant side table next to his chair. On its shining inlaid-wood surface stood a dull silver dish, with a small key sitting in it. I deposited my cufflinks into the dish, and Cumberbatch raised his eyebrows. “Where on earth did you find yourself such gaudy trinkets?” he asked softly, and then looked at Zach.

“They were my father’s,” I lied curtly, and rolled up my sleeves. The tub was deep, and I had to lean in quite a ways before I could plug it up. I turned on the taps and presently hot steam billowed up and over the sides of the bath.

The whole time, Zach stood immobile and placid on the sheepskin rug, as unconcerned as if he were waiting for a bus.

“You can see to Zach, now,” Cumberbatch said. I came over to the rug. I had no idea what the Englishman meant, but Zach hinted clear enough by extending his arm, his sapphire and gold cufflink glinting at me in the warm yellow light cast by the chandelier. I removed it, and the other, and placed them with mine in the dish. Cumberbatch watched me every step of the way, but I wouldn’t look into his face.

I returned to Zach and undressed him. Cumberbatch gave me brief, snappish instructions on where to lay out Zach’s clothes whenever I showed hesitation. The worst was when I knelt down to unlace his shiny black shoes, my head bent low over them. I could see the shadowy reflection of my own face in his inky toes. At least I was spared a mirror image of my humiliation.

Cumberbatch, I noticed, stared away, one knee bouncing in agitation. It was as though he couldn’t bear to watch the scene, couldn’t bear to see Zach’s nakedness, and it puzzled me. Wasn’t that his whole schtick, the watching?

Once I’d disrobed him, Zach sank into the bathtub with a moan of pleasure that made my prick shudder despite myself. He laid himself back and wrapped his hands lightly around the sides with a contented sigh.

“There are flannels there, at the end,” Cumberbatch said, and stood up to pace around aimlessly. On the baroque bench running across the foot of the tub was a collection of neatly folded washcloths, just as he had said, but I still wasn’t sure what he expected from me.

“The soap is there, too,” Zach murmured, his eyes opening to slits.

“Oh,” I said grimly, and got the message. I wet a cloth, soaped it up, and started to wash Zach’s chest. Finally, the Englishman turned to watch us. Perhaps, I thought, it was just this that Cumberbatch wanted: a show, a display of my servitude and an acceptance of his power over me. Well, I could give him a show.

“Make sure you get his back,” he said, circling the tub, and me kneeling there next to it.

“Oh, no need,” Zach said. “There’s no need. This is lovely. I don’t want—”

“But _I_ want,” Cumberbatch snapped.

Defeated, Zach pulled himself forward in the bath and sat with his head bowed. I heard Cumberbatch’s intake of breath as he saw Zach’s skin. The marks were not so bad now; they’d faded, though they were still apparent. I didn’t glance in Cumberbatch’s direction while I washed Zach’s back. Why give the man extra satisfaction? Once I was finished, though, and Zach reclined against the copper side of the tub, I did look up.

“Am I done?” I was tired of the game. Tired of waiting for the other shoe to drop. I was struck by Cumberbatch’s face; he was so pale his lips were bloodless, and drops of perspiration shone on his brow.

“No,” he said, and his voice was taut and quivered like a violin string. “No, Mr. Pine, you are not _done_.”

“The water is getting cold,” Zach said quietly.

“Then for Christ’s sake, tell him to add more hot water,” the Englishman snapped. I turned the tap without Zach relaying the instruction. Cumberbatch cleared his throat before he went on, his composure recovered. “Do you know what I believe to be Zach’s problem?” I made no reply, and focused instead on testing the heat of the water. “Christopher?” He made my name sound dangerous, like a promise of pain.

“No, Benedict. What is his problem?”

“I am _so_ glad you’ve asked, since it will pertain to you while you’re staying here—both his problem, and his solution. He takes a lubricious pleasure in his bathing, does he not?”

I’d continued in my half-hearted washing of Zach, and at Cumberbatch’s words I couldn’t help looking down into the water. He was right. Zach had been partly aroused through the whole ritual, and he squirmed now as though my gaze was a touch. His lips, never truly closed at rest anyway, opened a little wider and his nipples tightened despite the warmth of the bath. My washcloth dipped lower, and I swiped it across his belly and looked Zach straight in the eye.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, he does.”

Cumberbatch paced at the end of the bath, his arms crossed, watching us and monologuing fit to beat Hamlet. “In fact, he is a libertine through and through. He is a sybarite, a perfect satyr; a hedonist and a voluptuary; lecherous above all things; seeking only and ever his own gratification. He is, in a word—” Here he stopped, and touched his fingertips to the foot of the bath. “Oversexed.”

As Cumberbatch spoke the word, Zach’s hands clutched at the tub. They stared straight at each other, the two of them, and Zach’s lips curled at the corners. His cock was thick, swaying in the eddies of the water.

“Aren’t you, Zachary?”

“Oh, yes. Yes, Benny.”

Without thought, as though I were catching a fish, I darted my hand into the water to grasp his prick. Zach arched, and the water slapped up the sides of the tub.

“You see?” Cumberbatch breathed.

“Yes,” I said. “I see.” I was hard myself, and I wondered if Cumberbatch was as well. I gave my hand a squeeze, just to see Zach wriggle again. My shirtsleeve was soaked through.

“There is only one solution,” Cumberbatch continued, leaning in closer. “He simply must have relief.  It’s an agony for him to go even a single day without emptying his bollocks. He’d go out of his mind, I suppose; start rutting up against the furniture. We can’t have that. So he needs to relieve himself regularly. He’ll toss off if he has to, but he prefers to have someone else do it. Rather like a stud bull, you know, being milked of its semen.”

“Like a _goat_ ,” I said, and the note of disgust in my tone surprised me. Zach whined in the back of his throat, and Cumberbatch gave a short burst of laughter.

“He knows you, Zach,” he said. “He knows you.”

I had my hand firm but unmoving around Zach’s cock. I watched his face closely, wondering if the desperation there was only for show. Somehow, I thought not.

“Come on,” he said to me. “Please.”

He could have rubbed at it himself, of course, or clenched his fingers around mine and made me do it, but that wasn’t how this particular game was played. For once I was being granted an element of control. I wasn’t being choked or suffocated; for the first time, I was clothed and he was naked. He was vulnerable. The Marquess of Holford was laying his prized possession out before me on a silver platter—or in a copper bathtub, anyway.

So: “No,” I said, spitefully. “You can wait a little longer.”

Cumberbatch laughed again, delighted.

“Please,” Zach repeated. “Oh, please.” He was trying to move, trying to get some measure of stimulation, but my hand moved with him and all he ended up with was the chokehold I had on his cock and waves in the water. He stilled, and I rewarded him by fondling his balls, massaging them the way he liked to do to mine, until he started moving again, and I stopped.

Cumberbatch pointed out, “You’ll have to behave, Zachary, if you want to be set loose.”

Zach’s head lolled back, his throat a pale arc speckled with pinpricks of hairs, a shadow threatening to bloom. I could see the muscles of his throat undulating as he swallowed. I stroked him with a firm, unyielding grip, and the water rocked and splashed with my movement. I brought him to the edge, until he whimpered and his knuckles turned white as he seized at the edge of the bath, and then I stopped.

He groaned, gritting his teeth.

“Now this _is_ interesting,” Cumberbatch murmured. “Will he relent, Zach, do you think? Will he let you have your release, or will he be cruel? You have been cruel to him, after all. He might leave you in your torment, on that terrible brink between anguish and rapture.”

“Benny,” Zach gasped, and reached out towards him. “Please.”

Cumberbatch remained unmoved. “It’s in his hands alone. Literally.”

“Look at me,” I said roughly. Damned if I would let him shoot a load while begging Cumberbatch for permission. Zach turned his head and ran an unsteady hand over my shoulder. I said, “Ask _me_ , you hear? Ask me.”

“Please.”

“No.”

“Please, sweetheart.”

It was the pet name that persuaded me; it made me think of all the other pretty things he’d called me and how they’d made me feel, and how his body had made my body feel. It must have been that lust coming over me, because I said, “You’re so desperate for it. Come on then, you goddamn degenerate.”

I’d never talked like that in his ear before and I thought I never would again, but it did the trick, alright. I felt a flood of new warmth in the water around my wrist, and with my other hand I grabbed a handful of his hair and forced him under the water, willing him to feel the same panic I’d endured in the pool the other day.

The water sloshed with the tempest of his convulsions, and I found myself just about drenched. I let him up quick enough, but he coughed and choked as though he were drowning still. I ignored him, slicked my hair back off my face and reached for a towel from the bench. Cumberbatch pulled them away.

“Just a moment. Are you cold?”

“Yes, and it’s damned uncomfortable,” I told him baldly, and put my hand on the edge of the bath to help myself up from my knees. Zach was still gasping for breath in the cooling, polluted water, but he clutched at my hand like he was trying to tell me he forgave me.

I didn’t want his forgiveness.

Cumberbatch said, “Dry Zach first. Then you can worry about yourself.” He returned to his chair, and watched me help Zach out of the bath and rub him down with a towel soft as mink as he stood on the sheepskin rug.

“Get me a cigarette, would you?” he asked me idly, while I was on my knees drying off his feet. I gave him an incredulous look. “Never mind,” he said hurriedly, but something landed next to me on the rug, right next to my hand: Zach’s cigarette case. Cumberbatch had thrown it to me. _At_ me.

I turned in time to catch in one hand the lighter he pelted at me.

“Quick hands,” he said. “You’d make a fine fieldsman. Do you play cricket?”

“Baseball,” I said. “Shortstop.” We stared at each other until Zach shivered.

“My robe,” he said. “Please.” I brought it to him and helped him into it. I lit his cigarette for him. He said, “You should go and change, or you’ll catch your death. Won’t he, Benny?”

“Yes. You’ll catch your death.”

I shivered then. I got out of that bathroom as fast as I could without running, but at the door of Cumberbatch’s bedroom I remembered: my cufflinks were still in the silver dish. I didn’t like to leave them behind. I was certain I’d never see them again if I did, and—despite everything that had passed between us, despite the hot shame welling in me—I wanted them, a talisman showing Zach’s regard for me. A reminder of the good things we’d shared. Cumberbatch hadn’t liked them, either; another compelling reason.

I strode back towards the connecting door before I could change my mind, but paused when I realized I could hear them speaking.

“Why must you always choose the most wretched lowlifes? To try me further?”

Zach replied, “I told you, my best beloved, he means nothing to me. It’s you, only you. _Always_ you.”

There was a pause, and then Cumberbatch said slowly, “He does have potential, this _chaud lapin_ of yours. That way he looks at Alice, sometimes. And he has a callous streak in him; he showed that today.”

“You promised you’d leave Alice out of it, Benny.”

Zach’s voice was so close I backed away, and bumped blindly into a dresser. The talk stopped. Footsteps came close. There was nothing for it. I stood my ground.

Zach flung open the door and froze, but only for a moment. “Miles. We’ll take tea downstairs in half an hour,” he said, using the tone of voice he reserved for the servants, raised a little because he wanted Cumberbatch to hear him. “In the rose garden, I think, since it’s such a sunny afternoon. We’ll send for you if we need anything else.”

 _Go_ , he mouthed at me, but there was no need. I was going, alright. I shook my head at him in disgust.

“Stay the hell away from me,” I hissed over my shoulder, and banged the door shut on my way out.

 

 


	9. Shadow of a Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He came close to me, like he might try to take me in his arms, but stopped when I clenched my fists. “Does this seem to you,” he asked in a low, pained voice, “to be what I desire? You can’t bear to be around me. You shrink away from me, you—”
> 
> “Christ, Quinto, can you blame me?” I asked coldly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note: This chapter contains threats of violence, and mention of domestic violence (physical and emotional abuse).

I took a long, steaming shower in my _en suite_ , trying to sort things out in my mind. I knew exactly what Zach would maintain if I asked him: that he was just telling Cumberbatch what he wanted to hear. That _of course_ I was the one he truly loved. I could hear him, just about, his fake accent whispering in my ear just like he’d murmured sweet things at the Englishman.

_You, only you. Always you._

No, there was no question about what he’d say. The real question was whether I could believe him or not, and the man was an inveterate liar. What the hell Cumberbatch’s crack meant, about the way I looked at Alice, I could only guess. I didn’t doubt Zach would find a way to explain that away, too; yet when I thought about it, I came over gooseflesh, even under the hot stream of water. Cumberbatch hinting that Zach was some kind of sex maniac—maybe it was just his idea of a gag, but I couldn’t shake the dread. It settled at the base of my skull like a dull ache.

The Incubus floated into my mind. A killer who’d choked a pretty blonde to death. But it was unthinkable, I insisted. Zach, while courteous and gallant to the female of the species, had shown no interest in them sexually, and the papers had been clear—insofar as they could make themselves clear about it—that the murder of Rachel Nichols had been not only violent, but sexual.

I felt a frisson of dread. _Alice_.

My gut cramped, sudden and excruciating, and I grabbed at my belly. My God, but I needed a drink.

The water ran cold, so I hopped out. I couldn’t bring myself to wear the robe hanging on the back of the door, with its richly curled _BC_ insignia on the breast pocket. I wrapped myself in a towel instead and went to get dressed, trying to find something in the selection of clothes that suited my own tastes.

There was a short, loud knock at the door, and I called an abrupt and impolite “Yeah,” as I continued rummaging in the cupboard. My first mistake was assuming it was Zach.

“I did ask Zach to provide proper attire for you.”

I spun around, clutching the towel at my waist. Cumberbatch, of course. That was my second mistake: underestimating the extent of his entitlement. The knock had been an irony, a way to catch me off guard.

“I asked Zach to leave you a robe in your bathroom. Or do you not approve of his choices?” he continued, his rich voice thin. He held up his hand to show me my cufflinks, and tossed them without care on the dresser, where they rolled across the top and came to rest against the mirror. He came up close to me, and I felt like I was being backed into the wardrobe.

I drew myself up to my full height, which gave me a few inches on him. “Since you ask, no. I don’t like the choices he’s made.”

He raised a hand, fingers stretching out towards my chest, as though he wanted to touch me, but he stopped a half-inch away. I wasn’t backing down, and refused to move away.

“I think we’d better come to an agreement,” he said softly. “I’d suggest a gentleman’s agreement, but…” I pushed past him rudely. Not being a gentleman in his eyes, it didn’t seem necessary to behave like one. I sat on the bed to unroll my socks and ignored him.

“Enough of this bluster,” he said, following me. “Zach likes to have his little dalliances, and for some reason he always chooses the most gutter-dwelling individuals he can find in each city. So enjoy yourself, by all means. Partake often and habitually. You have been bought and paid for, after all, and a pretty penny you cost, too.”

His shot struck home, and I sprang up off the bed.

“No one asked you to—”

“ _Au contraire_ ,” he said. “Someone _did_ ask me. I agreed because I am a kind and generous benefactor and I want Zach to have whatever he desires. And for the moment, he desires _you_.”

So I had Zach to thank twice over now for snaring me in this sticky web— _if_ Cumberbatch were to be believed. I sat down again, and smoothed out my socks against my thigh while I thought. “Seems to me you’d mind more,” I said carefully. I wanted to draw him out some if I could, understand the man more than I did. “You can’t watch _all_ the time, after all.”

He laughed at that, a genuine guffaw that made my skin crawl. “I don’t mind where Zach does his business. Because he’s _my_ dog, see? I don’t care if he’s sniffing your tail, because he knows who his master is.” His voice dropped, and he took a step forward. “But listen to me, Mr. Pine: _do not_ presume to whip my cur.”

He was enraged. His finger, pointing at me like a shotgun right between my eyes, was shaking.

I stared back, mute and confused.

“If any further harm comes to him—even if he tells me he demanded it—even if he gets down on his knees and begs me to spare you—I will extend an invitation to the Weller Boys, and happily watch them dash your brains out. Do you understand? I will have you killed, quite brutally, and I will make sure Zach watches every moment of it.” He breathed it all out like a sigh, like something he’d wanted to say for a long time and had kept bottled up inside. He waited for my reply, but I had nothing to say to him. “You presume too much,” he finished, and drew his fury back in again, a tide going out on the beach.

He left as suddenly as he’d come in. I sat where I was, sock in hand, and thought long and hard.

 

***

 

Thanks to Zach, I knew he and Cumberbatch would be having tea at the eastern side of the mansion in the cultured rose garden, so at least I could avoid them by taking myself elsewhere. I wasn’t eager to stay in my room and I sure wasn’t going to get any writing done, so I made my way to the parlor.

I was counting on time to myself, but of course it wasn’t to be. Pegg was there, laying out a game of Solitaire.  

“Hullo, there,” he said, surprised. “I thought you’d be with the men of the house.”

“And I thought you’d be with Alice. I didn’t mean to interrupt,” I said, and made to leave.

“Her Ladyship is out riding. Come and sit down,” he said. “Play some gin rummy. Or honeymoon bridge. You know honeymoon bridge? Oh, pity. I’ll have to teach you. But rummy’s fine for now. A penny in the pot to start traditional—where I’m from, anyway. We can make it a dime if you prefer. Funny money you Yanks have. No offense meant.”

“No offense taken,” I said, and gave my first genuine grin for a while. “You play gin for money, too?”

“No point otherwise, is there?” he said matter-of-factly. “Fix us a drink, will you? And why don’t you try something other than that poor American excuse for whiskey that you like so much?”

I laughed and went into the bar. I hadn’t seen Pegg drink before, so I asked, “What’s your poison?”

“Let’s match the game, eh? One way or t’other,” he said cryptically. My eye fell on a bottle of Tanqueray, and then a bottle of Jamaican rum. I’d had a horror of gin since a bad night a decade ago, so I held up the rum in a silent question. “That’s the stuff.”

I lost a few dollars to him over the course of an hour, and sank a good deal of rum while I did it. Pegg enjoyed conversation, but talked mostly about the game, about the English football leagues, and about racing. We had the ponies in common, and could commiserate and congratulate with amity.

“Peggy, can I ask you something?” I asked, when I was comfortably lubricated.

“Free country. Let’s have another pull at the beaker, eh?”

I poured him out another rum in his proffered glass. “What would you say if I told you I had reason to be worried about Alice?” I threw out the end card in my hand without watching what I was doing, and picked blind.

He threw out a card, picked up my queen of hearts, and then busied himself stuffing his pipe with tobacco from a crumpled pouch. He lit his pipe before he answered me. “I’d say I thought we’d already had this conversation. Gin.” He laid down his cards, but I didn’t bother checking them.

I tossed my hand down. “I mean she’s in danger. _Imminent_ danger.”

He surveyed his fanned-out cards and said nothing.

“Pegg—”

“I’m thinking,” he said pedantically. He gathered up all the cards and shuffled the deck together before laying out another Solitaire game. And then he said, “Where’s this danger coming from?”

“Why, Lord Cumberbatch of course.”

He turned out sets of three cards methodically. Flick. Flick. Flick. Red and black dancing before my eyes. He played out his cards quickly, perfectly.

“If your silence is supposed to suggest Zach’s involved—” I started wearily, because I was starting to think that myself, but he waved a hand to cut me off.

“After that business he pulled me into, I began to wonder about the both of you. But you seem a harmless chap after all.”

“Bear with me, Peggy,” I said, and gave what felt like a gruesome smile. “Go back a little. What business did Zach pull you into?”

He blinked rapidly at his cards, and paused in laying them out. “Eh-hem,” he said. “Well. I’m a man of the world, but…”

If I could have wrung the words from his throat with my hands, I would have, but with a superhuman effort I waited. I kept my mouth tight, knowing Pegg would spill. He was a talker by nature despite his strong and silent act when Cumberbatch was around.

I was right.

“The beating he wanted,” he said in a rush. “I didn’t like it, but he insisted, and it seemed to me he took more pleasure in it than pain. Made me uncomfortable. But I was plastered that night, we both were. I gave him a few whacks—a few more than I would have liked, actually—but I gave it away in the end even though he wanted more.”

“The beating he wanted,” I parroted.

“Didn’t he tell you about that?” Pegg cringed. “I thought he must have, when he told me the whole plot was off after all. And then you coming here, everything seemed cozy between you. Look, I’m sorry about the whole blasted thing, I truly am. I tried to argue him out of it. I tried to make him forget the whole bloody idea the morning after, but…”

The door opened.

“Speak of the devil,” Pegg chirped, and deftly pocketed the money left on the table from gin rummy.

“I’ve been looking everywhere for you,” Zach said, and came straight to me.

“I’ll just bet you have,” I growled. I shoved my chair back to stand. “I’ve got a bone to pick with you. Several bones, as it turns out.”

Zach gave me a warning glance, inclining his head at Pegg.

“I wouldn’t worry about him,” I said. “He knows what’s what. In fact, he’s a very entertaining storyteller.”

“Is he now?” Zach sauntered across to the fireplace. He placed an arm across the mantelpiece with a studied manner and turned his face towards me. “Spun you a tale, has he?”

“Come on, boys,” Pegg interjected. “Don’t make me separate you.” He continued playing his cards.

Zach tapped his fingertips against the Italian marble of the fireplace like he was trying to make up his mind. “What exactly have you been telling stories about, Pegg?”

I answered before Pegg could. “Your little scheme. Peggy told me the whole deal.”

“Did he?” Zach asked calmly. He took one of the Gauloises from the jade cigarette box on the mantel, and looked across at Pegg as he lit it.

Pegg shrugged and smiled cheerfully. “Afraid it just slipped out.” He turned over the next lot of three cards.

“I rather wish it hadn’t,” Zach murmured. “But what’s done is done, I suppose. I say, Pegg, would you give us the room?”

I crossed to the bar to make myself a drink. If I was going to have to listen to more of Zach’s lies, I’d need something to make them more palatable.

“Oh,” Pegg said in disappointment. “But I’m just about to go out in this game. Look, I can put this Ace of spades here, then the red Queen—”

“I’m sorry, but you’ll have to come back to it.”

“I’ll be two shakes of a—”

“Pegg!”

We both started, Pegg and I. I’d never heard Zach raise his voice quite like that, barking like a despot and expecting to be obeyed. It reminded me of someone else entirely. Pegg left without a word but with an injured air.

“No need to take it out on him,” I said after he’d gone. “He thought you’d already told me and we were in the kiss and make up stage.”

“Oh, damn him to hell,” Zach growled. “He can’t keep his nose out of my business.”

“It was his business, too. And mine, though I didn’t know it.”

Zach sat down and beckoned me over. “Come on, sweetheart. At least give me a chance to explain.”

“No need for any more lies. It’s clear enough: you were playing me. You have been from the start.”

He gave an impatient huff. “You’re cross with me, but you needn’t be. Yes, alright: we hatched up a hare-brained scheme, Pegg and I, thinking we might convince someone to take care of our problem. But it was after a night of heavy drinking. We’d talked ourselves into a frenzy. Thought we could get someone to do our dirty work for us, because Lord knows we’d never be able to do something like that ourselves.”

“Oh, but _I_ would. And you suggested me,” I said bitterly. “I seemed like the right type to convince, did I? Not the kind to be particular about who I murdered?” I was still standing at the other side of the room, and my glass, I discovered, was empty. I poured myself another as Zach lit a cigarette from the glowing butt of his first.

“You’re making it sound so cold-blooded,” he said at last, once he’d puffed out several clouds of smoke around him. “It wasn’t like that at all. It was Pegg and me and a bottle of some ghastly aniseed liqueur, which I’ll never touch again, by the way. We’d had a devil of a night with Benny; he was looking for any excuse to make the evening unbearable. We were all at the opera, and he insisted Alice come despite her migraine—when you know how ill she gets—“

Yes, I knew. Zach had mentioned them before, and Alice had suffered one the day after I arrived; got a glazed look and had to retire to her bedroom, where she stayed in the dark for hours with a cold cloth across her forehead. This is what Zach had told me she was doing. I hadn’t seen her myself, of course. But I could imagine it.  I _had_ imagined it: her slim limbs taut with pain and her lips parted in a silent prayer for the agony to stop. She wore robin’s egg blue chiffon in my mind, sprays of it covering her modesty but shifting gently with her deep, slow breaths.

Zach had continued his story while my thoughts strayed, but I tuned back in to hear him say, “—so of course we were in simply the _blackest_ mood, and once I’d got Benny finally bundled off to bed and Pegg had seen Alice safe to her room, we reconvened down here with that evil gut rot.”

“And planned out how you might get me to murder your meal ticket.”

“For God’s sake,” he said irritably, puffing out another cloud of smoke. “I tell you, it wasn’t _like_ that, and if that’s what he told you then he’s exaggerating. I just said to him that we’d need someone who knew the seedier side of LA. You were the obvious choice.” I couldn’t take umbrage at that, certainly not after the jazz club. “We were going to ask you to find someone. Hire someone.”

“A hit?” I gaped at him. “That’s a straight way to the gas chamber. And besides, that’s not the way it happened. You asked me—you suggested that _we_ —”

“Well, yes,” he said. “I was still very angry with Benny when I came to you that evening. But obviously the horror of what we’d talked about began to weigh on my mind, and when I returned the next day I was relieved to find you felt the same; that it had only been a _folie à deux_ we’d talked ourselves into.”

I ran a hand over my mouth. There was something in what he was saying, after all. He had abandoned the idea quick-smart when I backed out.

“There, you see?” Zach said, and gave me a smile. “Whatever you’d worked up in your head, you can forget it. You must trust me. We have a common enemy, you know.”

God help me, I wanted to believe him. I wanted to think it was the two of us together against a tyrannical sadist.

I asked, “ _Does_ he actually beat you, or—”

“He hurts me. Yes, sometimes it’s physical. Sometimes he wants to humiliate me, like this afternoon. And sometimes he hurts me by destroying the things I love.”

“Like the Miles Davis record.”

He gave me a long, sad look, like I’d disappointed him somehow. “Yes,” he said at last. “Like the record.”

I wondered whether or not to give away what Cumberbatch had insinuated in my bedroom, but I was too drunk to err on the side of caution. “Did you ask him to buy me for you?”

“No. I did not,” he said, and started up a third cigarette. “I told you that day, I had nothing to do with him paying off your debt. He wanted to go for a drive—made me stop there—I was as surprised as you that day—”

I broke in. “ _He_ told me he bought me because you asked him to. Because he is—” I paused to recall his words exactly. “He is a kind and generous benefactor, and he wants you to have whatever you desire.”

He came close to me, like he might try to take me in his arms, but stopped when I clenched my fists. “Does this seem to you,” he asked in a low, pained voice, “to be what I desire? You can’t bear to be around me. You shrink away from me, you—”

“Christ, Quinto, can you blame me?” I asked coldly. He fell silent. “What Cumberbatch was saying about you being…” I couldn’t articulate the thoughts I’d been having. They seemed ludicrous now, with the sun low in the sky and shining red and gold into the room, making Zach’s brown eyes fire bronze and picking out auburn lights in his hair. Zach, a savage murderer, a woman-killer? No. Ridiculous.

Zach said, “He likes to call me oversexed. He likes to dehumanize me, describe me as an animal, ruled by instinct. Crazed by my libido.” He saw my face, and looked upset. “Oh, for God’s sake. You _know_ me. I’m always careful, aren’t I? I’ve never hurt you, my best beloved, not more than you wanted to be hurt.”

“Don’t call me that,” I snarled. “That’s what you called _him_ this afternoon.”

He lit yet another of his Gauloises. The room was reeking of them, so I crossed to open the window. The air outside was still warm and smelled sweet. In the distance, on the green hill well beyond the pool and the outer hedges, I saw a horseback rider trotting towards the stables. Alice.

“I’m sorry you overheard that conversation. I was just—”

“Why was he talking about Alice?”

“My darling heart, whatever you heard—”

“Alright, don’t waste your breath,” I said, turning back to face him. “I’ve had a gutful of your lies. I’m choking on them. Just stay the hell away from me, why don’t you?”

“I suppose you’ll choose to believe in me or you won’t,” he replied tightly. He tossed his cigarette into the fireplace and stalked to the door. “It’s up to you. But I’m not lying. What he meant was, you’re looking for comfort and you’re cold enough to take it where you can.” I turned my back on him again. “Frankly, I can understand why he thinks that way.”

I whirled around to say something just as vicious in return, but he’d already gone. Alice was still trotting across the field, and it occurred to me that there was nothing stopping me from walking out to the stables to meet her on her return. She made a striking, slim figure on a massive white horse, bright against the green and brown of the grass.

I did as I’d decided to do, and when she turned into the corral at the stable I saw she was riding bareback.

“Hello,” she said, surprised to see me. She was flushed from the exercise, her hair blowing around her face like angel wings. “What are you doing here?”

“Thought I’d come to say hello. Say, is that safe?”

“Is what safe?” she asked, swinging down off the horse. She was wearing jodhpurs and a dusty white sweater. The outfit clung to her curves as sweet as a lover might. She saw me looking and quirked her mouth.

“You know,” I said. “Without a saddle.”

“Of course it’s not safe,” she said, and took the reins in her hand to guide the horse back to the stables.  “But I wanted to bring Thor in from the far paddock, and I didn’t want to carry a saddle all the way out there. Besides, once this gentleman gets the bit between his teeth, he’s lovely and docile. Easy to lead.”

I grinned stupidly. “Oh, I believe it,” I said. “I believe it.”

She walked the horse back into his stall and started to brush him down. The stables were a riot of scent: woodchip, hay, sweat, leather, and an acrid, dirty undertone. Reminded me of Zach, somehow.

“Don’t tell Benny, will you?” she asked between brushstrokes.

“That you’re out riding bareback?” I leaned against the stall and watched her work. It was something to see the tiny blonde so confident around a massive beast like Thor. And he just stood there, acquiescent and meek.

“And straddling.”

“Ah,” I said. “Straddling.” She was around the other side of the horse, and so she didn’t see my face.

“Benny, bless him, thinks that _ladies_ should ride sidesaddle,” she continued, coming back around.

“I’ve heard some ladies prefer American-style.”  I was lucky Pegg wasn’t about. He’d’ve clocked me for that one.

Alice gave me an appraising look. “Benny doesn’t like Americans much.”

“Apart from Zach,” I pointed out.

“One forgets he’s your compatriot sometimes. He’s become quite Continental over the years.”

“ _You_ seem to like my species okay.”

“It’s true. I am fond of Americans,” she said, ducking her head to hide a smile. “There’s no falsity about them. One knows what they seek.”

“Does one?” I asked, and took the brush from her hand. I pulled her away from the horse, into the stable proper.

“Oh, yes,” she said, looking up into my face.

I cupped her face in my hands and drowned myself in her perplexing, mismatched ocean eyes. I got an inch from her soft, parted lips before she closed her fingers around my wrist and took a little step backwards.

“I don’t think it’s really on,” she said good-naturedly. “Do you?”

“Uh?”

She shook her head with a grin. “You are delicious, darling, I will admit, but I’m not quite up to doing this kind of thing in a horse stable. What is it you Americans like to call it—necking? Besides,” she said, stepping away and picking up a shovel, “Benny wouldn’t like it. And nor, I’m certain, would Zach.”

So Alice knew everything. Or did she? Did she know exactly what the men of the house got up to? The thought made my cheeks flame. But yes, she must know; how could she not? We none of us went out of our way to hide it. I rubbed the back of my neck, and screwed up my face. “I keep getting shot down by the fair sex,” I said. “Maybe I need to fine-tune my act.”

“Maybe you need to find another.”

“Hm.” I watched her rolling up her sleeves. “What’re you doing with that spade?”

She sighed. “Same thing I end up doing every day of my life. Shoveling fresh horse shit from one pile into another.”

It was jarring to hear the phrase falling from her lips. But I was more taken aback by her tone. She sounded not quite herself; bitter, maybe.

“Listen,” I said. “What I came out here for was to tell you I think you’re in trouble. I don’t like some of the talk I’ve been hearing your cousin make behind closed doors.”

She paused and leant on the shovel. “You’re quite right,” she said, panting slightly. “I _am_ in trouble. I want to marry, you see. I’d like to take control of my part of the family fortune, but it won’t come to me until I marry.”

I huffed a laugh. “Doesn’t seem like something your cousin’d be too keen about.”

“No, indeed. He’s furious about it.”

“He must have known it’d come sooner or later. Besides, you’re a free woman, aren’t you? You could go back to London on your own.”

She slowed again in her shoveling. “Benny wasn’t always like this, you know. Before the war, he was quite different. Cheerful. I remember he’d play hide and seek with me at Holford Hall when I came to visit. He’d take supper with me in the nursery, play at my dollies’ tea parties with me. After my parents died and I went to live with him, he was very kind to me. Very kind. He knew what it was to lose one’s parents. He wanted me to feel safe.”

I couldn’t imagine it, a kind Cumberbatch. “A lot of boys came back changed from the war,” I hedged.

“Yes. Yes, I suppose it must have been the war that changed him. Now perhaps you should go back to your novel,” she said with a brisk air, “unless you plan to help me with this?”

Horse shit. That was the undertow scent in the place, the base note I hadn’t identified before. No wonder the smell of it reminded me of Zach, I thought spitefully.

“I’ll leave you to your manure. I’ve got enough of my own to deal with.”

On my way back to the mansion, I thought over what Alice had told me. Marriage. Could it be? Was _that_ what Cumberbatch had planned for me, for Alice? If he thought he could control me and marry his cousin off to me, then he’d still have Alice, and all that money. It didn’t seem likely—the man loathed me—and yet the thought of it gave me a strange thrill. Alice.

Alice, and all that money.

I was appalled at myself by the time I got back to my room. Take Alice just because it suited me, suited Cumberbatch? _Morals of an alley cat_ , my old Ma used to say about young ladies of a loose kind. I wondered what she’d say about _me_ if she could see me now, thrilling to the idea of murder, to a sadist joining me to his rich, beautiful cousin. How far I’d come in the world, I thought bitterly, since that day I met Zach at Chateau Marmont—and then I thought about Zach.

All it took for me to start rotting was a few months living with money. Could I really blame Zach for his cold-blooded attitude, having lived this way for over a decade?

 

***

 

It took more nectar than usual to wash away my worries that night, and when I woke the next day I was just about in ribbons. Whichever houseboy’d attended me that morning had tactfully left the curtains closed, but my breakfast tray was cooling on the bedside table. I drank down the sweet juice gratefully. My head was swimming. Still, I’d learnt my lesson, when someone came rapping at the door just after I’d heaved myself up to sit against the pillows.

“Who is it?” I demanded.

The door cracked open and one beetle-dark eye peered at me. “Good morning,” Quinto said cautiously, and then, “May I?”

I grunted in reply and started chewing on cold toast.

“You look a little under the weather,” he said, slipping into the room. He shut the door after himself and leaned up against it, as though wanting as much distance between us as possible. Well, I’d told him to stay away from me, after all.

“What do you want?” I asked, sinking back into the pillows. I could’ve used another few hours’ sleep to knock the hangover down to manageable.

“It’s a little tricky. I’d organized an outing, you see. Before you asked me to leave you alone.”

“Before I realized what a Judas you were?”

Zach ignored that, and played his trump. “Charles Scribner is in town.”

I split one eyelid open and tried to read his face. “Junior?”

He nodded.

“Of Charles Scribner’s Sons?”

“The same.”

I sat up again in bed, just like he’d known I would. “My, but you’re a sly one,” I said. “I almost admire your artistry.” Charles Scribner’s Sons had published every author I cared about. Wolfe. Hemingway. Fitzgerald, of course.

Charles Scribner, Jr, had taken over as head of the company a few years back at the tender age of thirty-one. He’d trained as an editor as well, and had a sterling reputation. My heart beat a little faster at the thought of meeting him, but I wouldn’t give Quinto the satisfaction of knowing it.

“And how were you planning to play this out?” I asked, crossing my arms and grinning a death’s-head grin at him. “Do tell.”

He rolled his eyes as though _I_ were the one overdoing it. “Charles and I became acquainted during my time in New York. When he wired to let me know he was coming out to Los Angeles, I arranged a luncheon. I wanted you to meet him, talk about your book with him. But of course if you’d rather nurse your sore head, that’s up to you.”

“Acquainted,” I repeated. “Acquainted, you say?” Before he could reply, I had to make a dash to the bathroom and retch into the toilet for a while. I sauntered back out with a clammy face, and I didn’t miss the way Zach’s eyes traveled over my naked torso. “Who, exactly, did you plan to invite to this tea party?”

“Just the three of us. You and I and Scribs.”

“Just the three of us, huh? No _Benny_?”

“I booked us a table at the Brown Derby.” It seemed like a _non sequitur_ , but I took his meaning. I didn’t have to stretch my imagination far to guess the Marquess of Holford’s opinion of a Hollywood restaurant like the Brown Derby. “Anyhow,” Zach sighed, and pulled open the door. “I’m driving into town at half twelve. Meet me at the car if you want to come. I shall understand if you don’t.”

He left me to stew on it. It wouldn’t have surprised me to discover that the serpent of Eden had trained Quinto as a protégé. I cleaned myself up as best I could and was waiting obediently by the garage for him bang on twelve-thirty. He said nothing, barely even glanced my way, and we drove out of the mansion grounds in stony silence. I sat beside him in the front, unwilling to be chauffeured like Cumberbatch, but two minutes in I wished I’d taken the back seat after all. It was damned uncomfortable to be sitting stiffly there next to him, keeping my elbows tucked in and my thighs tight together.

Once we were in company, Zach was all affability. You would have thought we were old college buddies the way he clapped me on the back and talked me up to Scribner. The publisher was thirty-six now, and a long-faced, ascetic-looking fellow until he smiled. His twinkling eyes took me by surprise, and his charming, cheerful manners put me at ease. I refused the waiter’s offer of a drink to start, until Scribner asked for a rye and water.

“Now, Scribs, you shouldn’t encourage that sort of thing,” Zach said. “Besides, poor Chris had a rough night.”

I shot him a glare, but Scribner waved aside his objection. “Hair of the dog,” he said. “Best thing for it. Besides, writers _will_ drink, won’t they? Fitzgerald drank like a fish. Hemingway, too. When I was going over his last manuscript—”

I liked him. I wanted to impress him and chum up to him and wheedle my novel into his hands for publication, but most of all, I _liked_ the man. When he asked to see a copy of my book, I found myself nodding enthusiastically and promising to send it as soon as it was complete.

“Can’t you send what you have already?” he asked, as though nothing in the world would please him more than to read my shoddy first draft.

“We- _ell_ , I’ve only the one copy,” I started, in the tone of someone changing his mind, but immediately he stopped me.

“My God, don’t send me your only draft. I can wait. And for goodness’ sake, hire a typist to whip you up a copy, soon as you can.  I always advise our writers to keep multiples. Never know what might happen, after all.”

I didn’t like the idea of anyone else getting their fingers on my work before it was done, but I nodded my head and agreed that I’d think about it. We whiled away a pleasant three hours of food and drink with his tales of great American novelists, and by the time we were driving back to Bel-Air, I’d thawed considerably in my attitude to Zach.

“That was some lunch,” I groaned happily, pulling at my waistband. “Some lunch.”

“Just the food?” he inquired.

“The conversation, too. And company.” I gave him a glance. “I suppose I ought to thank you.”

“There’s no need,” he said, coming to a stop at the traffic lights. “Whether you believe me or not, I want you to succeed. I want people to talk about your work the same way they talk about Fitzgerald’s, and Hemingway’s, and all of those great writers.”

“Do you?” I asked. We looked full into each other’s face. “Is that what you want?”

His eyes went soft, and slid back to stare at the red light. “It is,” he said. “I want your every dream to come true.”

“Then ask your keeper to let me go. He would. He would if you asked him. You know how to play him, you could—”

“I can’t,” he said, and abruptly accelerated as the light went green. “I mean, I tried,” he added, as he took a sharp corner with more speed than was strictly safe. “I told him I was tired of you, that I didn’t want to perform for him anymore, not with you.” _Not with me?_ But before I could ask what _that_ meant, Zach continued. “So you needn’t worry about being summoned again. Only he won’t set you free, not yet.”

“Not yet,” I echoed, as the car turned into the gates and up the driveway to the mansion.

“Not yet,” he said when we reached the garage. He turned off the engine. “But…” He let out a breath, and looked over at me. “But I’m going to try again. I have to catch him in the right mood, d’ye see? If he thinks I’m lying, that I still—well, he won’t free you. But on the other hand, if he thinks I really have lost interest, he might keep you around to be contrary. I have to be careful about it, give it some time.”

Time. Of course. The Brown Derby had seduced me, and I rubbed at my eyes like a man waking from a dream.  I gave a laugh and hopped out of the car. “Oh, sure,” I said, leaning down to look in the window at him. “Sure. I guess you’ll take all the time you need.”

His face went impassive, and he got out his side. “Shall we engage a typist to make a copy of your draft so far, as Scribs suggested?” he asked politely, as we walked towards the mansion proper.

“I’ll think about it,” I muttered.

In the foyer, he tried again. “I’m glad you decided to come.” I marched up the staircase and he followed behind me. “I do think Scribs is interested in your work, you know. Very interested.”

On the landing, I detected a trace of Cumberbatch’s scent, drifting about like a disembodied spirit. I paused for a moment, struck by how it seemed stronger the closer I stepped towards Alice’s wing. Quinto grabbed my elbow and gave it a pull, startling me.

He said in a low voice, “In this house, it’s not just your actions that have consequences. How they are _perceived_ matters just as much.”

“Meaning?” I snapped, yanking my arm out of his grip.

“ _Meaning_ , friend, that it won’t help your cause to be caught brooding outside Alice’s door, not if you want Benny to cut you loose any time soon. Come along, now.” He took up my arm again and hustled me down the corridor. I was too busy being irritated to protest, and when we reached the door to my bedroom he gave a short, ironic little bow. “Now, after that pleasant afternoon, I’ll take your wishes to heart and leave you be.”

And off he strode towards his own room, while I reminded myself once again that he was a no-good liar, a scoundrel, a snake. I rubbed at my sore elbow, tender where he’d grabbed me, and ignored the twitching in my underpants.

 

 


	10. Out of the Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: biting, anti-Irish sentiment, suggestion of cousin incest.
> 
> A/N: Sorry about the delay. Combination of work/life/birthday present fic/round robin fic! I'm aiming to post the rest of this ASAP.

The most surprising thing to me over the next few days was that Zach did as I’d told him, and stayed away from me. It had a strange effect on me. I felt so lonely some nights that I stayed up until late playing Solitaire in the drawing room, long after the others retired. I was drinking more, too, and my writing suffered for it, but tomorrow always seemed like a better day to give up the bottle for good.

My thoughts strayed, no matter how I tried to keep them on the straight and narrow. My downstairs problem had started to clear up, as though in punishment for pushing Quinto away. I woke stiff and ready every morning as one of the houseboys opened my curtains, and felt self-conscious about it until they left the rooms, as though they could see through the quilts and blankets. Colton in particular stared hard enough at me to make me wonder if he had X-ray eyes, and once or twice I thought I detected an offer in his raised brow, or in his fingers brushing mine as he set the breakfast tray in my aching lap. But I didn’t want him. I told myself I didn’t want Zach, either. Zach, who would hardly look at me, even over the dinner table.

One night after such a dinner, when Cumberbatch was stowed and we’d all met up in the drawing room, Alice began to pick out a tune on the piano. She and Zach fell into singing duets. Zach favored jazz tunes, and although Alice claimed she was a poor singer she sounded sweet as Peggy Lee to me. Zach had a fine voice, though he claimed it wasn’t suited to jazz.

“What about you, Blue Eyes?” he asked me. He and I were leaning on the grand piano as Alice plink-plinked idly at the keys. He had undone his bowtie, leaving it slung around his neck with a risqué air. His undone top buttons kept me mesmerized, staring at the tuft of hair peeking out at me.

Alice looked up at me with a smile and said, “Yes, give us some Sinatra.”

They wouldn’t allow me to demur, so I sang a few lines from Frank’s last record, looking into Zach’s rich brown eyes: “I get along without you very well, of course I do, except when soft rains fall…” I was struck by the melancholia in my own voice, and so were the audience.

“It doesn’t sound romantic at all when you sing it like that,” Alice said, and laughed. She picked out a soft, slow version of the song on the piano. She could pick up any tune by ear and mimic it perfectly.

“Is it supposed to be romantic?” I asked. “I thought it was about loss.”

“Yes,” Zach said, and we looked at each other. “The pain of loss, but also the delusion that love has died, when it clearly has not.”

“Coulda fooled me.”

Alice hit an off-key note and we dropped each other’s gaze. I ruffled up my hair at the back of my neck, hoping Alice didn’t see me blushing. When I looked at her to check, she gave me a gentle smile. I couldn’t help goofing over her, dreamlike and fragile and beautiful as she was, even though she’d given me short shrift. Besides, if Cumberbatch had plans—

“Sinatra’s playing at the Birdhouse this Saturday,” Zach said abruptly. Alice turned to him, her eyes bright.

“You haven’t taken me anywhere for _weeks_ ,” she said. “Is that an invitation?”

“Why, certainly, my dove,” he said, and wandered away to where he’d left his cigarette case.

"Chris?" Alice leaned over to grab at my hand. "You'll come, too?"

I grinned. "Sure, I will."

Zach said: “Let’s ask Benny, too."

I slumped against the piano, like the hope and happiness had rushed out of me. With four words Zach had clouded the atmosphere. “But he doesn’t _like_ jazz,” I said, and it came out like a whine.

“He’s coming around to it,” Zach replied. His face was blank as marble, but I felt my stomach knot. Was he suggesting a visit to the Birdhouse nightclub might end up like our previous encounter at a jazz club? I couldn’t tell.

Alice startled me by playing three chords: an unmistakable _dun-dun-dunnn_.

“Come on, come on,” Pegg called. He was sitting at the card table, shuffling a deck in his hands. “Enough of that. Over here and cut the deck. Time to test your luck.”

“Skill, surely,” Alice said as she made her way over. “Bridge is a game of skill. Chris, shall we partner?”

“Sure,” I said, and sat opposite her.

“It’s always Lady Luck who gets the last laugh,” Pegg said seriously. “Pine knows it, don’t you, mate? Luck’s the only thing that matters in the end.”

“Yes indeed, Peggy,” I said. “Luck’s the thing. Mine hasn’t been so hot lately, but the wheel always turns.”

“To your luck, then,” Zach said, and set a glass of bourbon in front of me before he sat at my right hand side. “May it come hot again.”

I made sure he saw me glance at Alice, who was busy arranging her hand. “Oh, I think it will,” I said. He stared resolutely at his cards. There was an unhappy cast to his mouth.

We threw in the towel around one in the morning.  

“You’ll see me bankrupt,” Zach said to Alice at the foot of the stairs, and kissed her goodnight.

“I shouldn’t think so,” she replied vaguely. “Benny would never let you go destitute, would he? Goodnight, Chris.” I grinned like a loon after her as she ascended the staircase, until Zach raised an eyebrow in a pointed sort of way.

“She sure is easy on the eyes,” I said, by way of explanation.

“An eloquent observation,” he replied, and I could tell he was piqued. We walked up the stairs together slowly, as though we both wanted to say something but couldn’t bring ourselves to speak. We trooped the same unwilling march along the corridor, and at the door to my bedroom, he hesitated.

“Christopher,” he started.

“Yes?”

He reached out a hand, like he wanted to caress my face, but stopped himself. “Well. Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.”

It was that hovering hand that stayed in my mind and wouldn’t let me sleep. Ten minutes of staring into the dark made my mind up for me. I had questions that needed answers, and I needed the answers then, that very moment, or I felt I’d never sleep again.

I would never have admitted it to myself, but all I really wanted was to see Zach, to let him touch me again in the way he still obviously wanted to do. It was repeating in my memory, that half-extended arm, the way his fingers had stroked at air instead of at my cheek. There was an aching hole inside me that demanded filling. I sat up and had a few mouthfuls of bourbon from the bottle I kept to hand in the bedside cabinet, but even that couldn’t anesthetize me. I wrapped myself in one of the robes from my closet and made my way to his room.

In hindsight, had I knocked, events may have played out quite differently. As it was, I opened the door and slipped inside without a second thought. It wasn’t until I turned from locking it that I realized my mistake. Colton, half naked, red lipped, chin shining with spit, was on his knees in front of a bare-chested Zach, who was seated on the end of the bed hastily tying up his pajama pants.

“What the hell’s going on here?” I demanded.

“Colton, you’d better go,” Zach said.

Colton grabbed up his clothes and pulled them on lickety-split, while I tried to keep my tingling fists out of his face. His usual sulky expression had been replaced with watchfulness as he sized me up. I was blocking the door, and I couldn’t blame him for his hesitation. I must have looked fit to do murder.

Zach gave an impatient _tch_ , and marched towards me. He pulled me aside, unlocked the door, and threw it open. “Out,” he snapped at the houseboy, who slunk away still buttoning up his shirt. Zach locked the door again behind him before turning back to me. “I’m sorry you had to see that,” he said to me. I could see the still-heavy line of his erection pulling at the cotton of his pajama pants.

“You may as well open the door and let me out, too,” I growled, and pushed him in the chest. He seized my wrists and held them where they were, pressed up against his hot flesh. Under my right palm I could feel his heart beating fast.

“You’re being unfair,” he said. “I’ve stayed away from you like you wanted, haven’t I? But you don’t know how much I’ve needed you. If you won’t love me, I can’t be blamed for seeking someone who will. It’s not as though _you_ haven’t looked for company.”

“Love? How can you even say the word? I don’t believe for a goddamn minute you’ve ever felt it.” I shoved at him again, yanking my wrists out of his grasp. He stumbled backwards until he hit the door and covered his face with his hands.

I was embarrassed for him, but didn’t know how to set it right, so I stood there like a dummy until he looked up and said calmly, “Yes, you’re quite right. What would I know of love?” He pushed himself off the door and went to light a cigarette. “Why are you still here?” he threw over his shoulder. I’d never heard him sound so hollow.

“Beats me,” I said. I let him smoke his cigarette down and thought about people I’d spoken to, chased after even, just for the sake of a little human contact. He was right about me, though I didn’t like it; I had a roving eye. I thought about Montgomery Clift and the dinner invite I’d wanted to accept. About the Magnolia Girl by the pool at Chateau Marmont, telling me off and sharing my bottle and thinking over my come-on. About Alice in the stables. What wouldn’t I have done with any of them, given half a chance? “Look, I shouldn’t’ve said that, what I said about—about love.”

He stared at me. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “At all. You blow hot and cold.”

“You don’t understand _me?_ ”

“One day you love me, then you’re throwing me over. You agree to be friends, and the next day you can barely tolerate being in the same room as me. I wish you’d settle on one thing and stop—” He broke off, and thumped a fist gently on the mantelpiece.

“Stop what?”

“Stop giving me reason to hope,” he muttered.

I felt the first stirrings of regret. “I was mad. I’ve been mad with you since I got here.”

“With reason,” he sighed.

“With reason,” I agreed. “But I guess I’m mad at the wrong guy. You were right, what you said. It’s better to stick together. I don’t know how much I believe you—how much of what you say is true—but like they say, it’s better the devil you know. And at least I know you.” Even Cumberbatch had said as much.

“I’m poison, my sweet. You’re better off without me.”

“Aw, cut it out. Feeling sorry for yourself doesn’t suit you.”

He gave a surprised laugh.

“Is the money worth all this?” I asked. “Is it really?”

“It’s not the money.”

My heart in my throat, I asked, “Do you love him?”

He came close to me and took my face in his hands before he tentatively, with his eyes fixed on mine, leaned in to kiss me. I let him in, let him have me how he wanted me, just like I always had.  When he’d kissed me deep enough to start my heart hammering, he pulled back and said softly, “No. I don’t love him.”

I should have pushed him away. I should have run back to my room and washed my mouth out to get his narcotic off my tongue. He was filling up my head and dulling my sense. “Then why do you stay? I’ve gotta know, Zach. I can’t go on with you like this, not when my freedom’s at stake. I’ve gotta know what he’s holding over you.”

“Oh,” Zach said, “I’ll tell you, alright. It’s just not a tale that puts me in a good light, so I don’t like telling it. But I can see you won’t rest until you know.”

“Then spit it out.”

I sat in the armchair near the fireplace and waited. I wondered if he’d try to put me off again, but he was as good as his word. He prowled around until I told him to seat himself as well, but he refused. “I’d rather not stay in one place while I tell it. If I’m moving around perhaps the terrible truth of it won’t be able to catch up to me.”

He had a dramatic soul. “Alright, suit yourself. Just get on with it.”

“I told you Benny and I met after we were injured in the war. I’m afraid it wasn’t quite like that.” He paused.

“ _Out_ with it,” I said, peeved. “Quit stalling.”

He paced the room like a caged animal looking for an escape, but he never faltered in his story. “Where did you serve?” was how he started it.

“I was too young for the draft,” I said. “And even if I hadn’t been, my eyesight would’ve knocked me out.” I tried to sound sore about it, but deep down I was still relieved. I don’t have a warrior’s heart and I don’t have any stomach for killing, so I was lucky an accident of birth kept me home. I came of age twelve days after the Japanese surrender was announced.

“My eyes were no good, either,” he replied. “And I was too young. But do you know what I did? I lied about my age, memorized the eye chart, and got passed for service.”

“Brave of you.”

“Oh, yes. I was certainly a valiant little fool. I knew my mama would never let me go, so I didn’t tell her. I just left her one night with a goodbye note and ended up in Tunisia. My brother Joe joined the Army right out of school, and he was raring to go. His letters home were full of friendship and laughs and fun. It didn’t take long to realize that war was not the glorious game I’d imagined. ”

“I didn’t know you had a brother,” I said stupidly. The idea of a naïve, youthful Zach, grubby and exhausted and risking trenchfoot, had thrown me.

“I don’t,” he said. “Not anymore. He was K.I.A. at Normandy.”

“Sorry to hear it.”

He brushed over it, but I could see the pain in the way his brows furrowed. “So there I was, young and lively and ready for glory, and what I got was watching friends and acquaintances ripped apart by machine guns while we tried to defend the Kasserine Pass.”

“You held it in the end,” I said, trying to recall my war history. It had all seemed so remote to me even at the time.

“We did, but it was a blue ruin from start to finish. I should have died. I almost did. I was caught unawares one morning and I just stood there like a frightened rabbit.” He paused, his eyes bright and hard. “It was Benny who saved me, you see. Jumped on me to knock me down and took a bullet in the back for his trouble.”

“God’s truth?”

He said softly, “If I were going to tell a lie, friend, it wouldn’t be one like this. We’d been having it off behind the latrines and lost track of time. The sun was coming up. The Krauts started shooting as soon as they saw us on the way back. So there we were in the middle, Benny just about dead and me playing it. He was begging me to get us to safety, calling out to our boys for help, and I knew he’d get us both killed unless he kept quiet. But he was in shock, getting delirious. I held my hand over his mouth to keep him quiet and he started moving, trying to get away, so I…”

He stopped and looked at himself in the grand mirror over the dresser.

“War makes people crazy,” I offered.

Without any sign of hearing me, he went on. “I wrapped my fingers around his neck and choked him ’til he shut up. Thought I’d killed him at first. He was a dead weight on me. I could hardly breathe myself, but I didn’t dare fling him off or we’d both be shot. I remember staring up at that azure sky, the sun burning into my eyes, and all I could hear was the noise of bullets and Benny’s labored breathing, starting and stopping. Sometimes I thought he was gone. But then he would start up again, rasping into my ear.”

I could hear it, too, or imagine it, and my own breathing seemed louder all of a sudden.

“I woke up in a med unit. Someone up above was looking out for us, one of the nurses told me. I fancied it was more probably someone down below. But there it was: we both survived, and I owed him my life. We hadn’t known each other long, but he’d fallen for me, and I had no pressing need to return to Pittsburgh. They found some medical reason to discharge me permanently, though I was quite well. Do you know, I’ve always wondered if Benny bribed them?”

“He’s just the kind of rat who would,” I pointed out. I couldn’t help myself, getting a crack in against him if I could.

Zach passed it over. “In any case, I was discharged. They told me I needed peace and quiet to recover, suggested a sanatorium in Switzerland. I was quite taken with the idea, but I had no money. Then Benny asked me to come home with him to his country estate, and I felt I had to. I felt I _should_ , if only for a time. Besides, he promised we would travel once he was well again, and I wanted to see the world without the danger of getting my brains shot out. And I cared for him too, or thought I did at the time. Love seemed like such an infantile notion once it had passed over.”

Did it, I wondered? The inferno that had raged in me for Zach was certainly nothing childish. It was the furthest thing from innocent I could imagine. Of course, I only called it love because I didn’t have the vocabulary then to call it what it really was.

Zach gave a long exhalation. “There; I feel better having got that off my chest. You know all my secrets now, dear heart. All except one.”

“Which is?”

He gave me a strangely shy look. “This one I can’t tell you. I can only show you. May I?” He crossed to me like a man approaching a frightened animal, and sank to his knees by my chair. With a slither, his arms went around me. When he kissed me his mouth was bitter with tobacco smoke, until his tongue got deeper in my mouth. He drew back, hands cupping my face, eyes bright. “Can you guess, lover?”

But something had occurred to me.  “You _haven’t_ told me everything,” I said, pushing him back. “The man still cares for you, that much is clear. So why put up with your lovers? Why not have you in his own bed? Do you refuse him?”

He gave a little sigh, as though he were tired of explaining how the world worked to a child, and rose to his feet. “Why, he’s impotent; didn’t you realize? The bullet, you see. It knocked him out of order and so he hates to be touched. Reminds him of it.” At my horrified expression, he laughed and pulled me out of the chair and led me to the bed. “He still has all the parts. He’s not maimed; they just don’t work. He spent half his fortune trying to have it fixed, but it was no use. It’s a sore spot for him, as you can imagine.”

“Sure I can,” I said fervently, as we crawled onto the bed. They way Cumberbatch avoided my touch, his sheer distaste for physical contact—it made sense now. The only time I could remember he’d touched me, he’d yanked at my hair hard enough to draw tears. And I’d been blindfolded and held down, suffocating on his scented cravat. I stopped Zach again from kissing me. “Is that why he likes to watch? He can’t get it up himself, so…”

“Probably.” He went back to suckling at my lower lip, his fingers busy with my clothes.

“Wait.” I was suspicious again. “Lord Benedict Cumberbatch got the draft? He couldn’t just buy his way out of the army?”

“He joined up as soon as Churchill declared war. He has a very English sense of duty. _Pro patria mori_ and all that. Shall we stop talking about him now?” He’d somehow got my pajama shirt open without me noticing, so it made sense to let him help me out of my pants.

But while I did, my mind was still working over the story he’d told me. It had a ring of truth to it; as he’d said, he wouldn’t tell such an embarrassing tale about himself.

“So you stay with him out of guilt. Is that it?”

“For God’s sake,” he said, and gave a real sigh this time. He swept my discarded clothes off the bed. “I suppose so, partly. There are myriad reasons. It became rather difficult to extricate myself, he saw to that. I have financial ties to him. And I do worry about Alice. Benny has changed so much over the years. He’s become so…”

“Twisted,” I supplied, thinking of my conversation with Pegg the first night I’d come to the mansion.

“Yes.” He pushed me down on the bed. “And so I worry that if I’m not here, he may turn his sadism on Alice instead. I can’t allow that.”

“Oh, no. No,” I said, although my fascination at the thought made me ashamed of myself. I was starting to understand how Cumberbatch’s mind worked—or thought I was—and the specter of what might befall Alice was horrifying.

But somehow enthralling.

“She’s his own cousin,” I breathed. “Surely he would never…”

Zach said nothing, but started to kiss along my collarbone, tugging his pants down. “I’m sure that wouldn’t matter to Benny,” he murmured into my neck. “You know how he is.” He dropped a hand to palm my cock, and I spread my legs for him. “I wonder, though, what he’d do. I wonder if he’d use the lash he likes to use on me sometimes. If he’d make her scream and cry and beg for him to—”

“Stop,” I gasped, and grabbed his wrist. My cock throbbed in his hand, but I felt sick at the conversation. “It’s not decent, that kind of talk. We shouldn’t think about—”

“You’re right,” Zach said soothingly, and gave me a little squeeze. I could feel his hot length against my hip. “No, you’re right. But you like the idea, don’t you? Do you like the idea of him punishing _me_? He has all sorts of cleverly-designed physical tortures that he likes to use on me. Perhaps you should watch one day, just to see. I’m sure he’d like you to watch. Would you like to watch?”

“No,” I said, but it was a lie, and Zach knew it.

“I’d like you to watch,” he said, and grasped me by the jaw when I tried to turn away. “Don’t be shy, lover. And don’t pretend it doesn’t excite you. It excites me to think about it.”

“Don’t,” I growled, and twisted out of his arms. “Stop this. It’s warped, this game you’re playing. I don’t know what the hell you’re doing it for.”

My prick had died in his hand, but I refused to feel embarrassed about it, not this time. I was right, after all: what he was suggesting was unthinkable. He sat back against the pillows and regarded me with an even, blank face. “Alright,” he said eventually. “I’m sorry. I suppose it’s all a lot to take in, what I’ve told you tonight. Would you prefer to go back to your own bed?”

“No,” I said, and reached for his hand where it lay on top of the covers. “No, I don’t want to leave. I just want…”

He seemed almost puzzled. “What _do_ you want?”

The words wouldn’t come, and even if they had, they would have been too fanciful, too overblown, too unsafe to admit to him. So I kissed him instead. I pulled his face towards mine with gentle hands and licked at that acerbic, taut-lipped mouth until he relaxed it. “Come on,” I said at last. “Show me this secret of yours again.”

He was gentle with me then, perhaps more gentle than he’d ever been. His hands were soft and kind as they moved over me. I felt like he was getting to know me all over again, searching out my vulnerabilities and the places that made me jump, arch, buck to his touch—and yet I couldn’t get hard for him.

“You can rough me up some if you like,” I told him, my lips pressed into the curve of his neck as he fondled me with too-tender fingers.

“Whatever you want, bunny.”

“Make me hop.”

“Alright. On your side, Cottontail.”

“Flopsy, more like,” I said under my breath.

He helped me roll over. “Oh, I know your cure,” he said, before spitting on his fingers and pressing them into me.

By God, he was right, too. He knew exactly what I needed, the panacea for my ills. I needed it brutal. I needed to feel that edge, the torment and the struggle. I needed it to sting, to ache, to stab me through. I knew him, yes—but he knew me, too.

The pain when he pushed his prick inside made me convulse, but he didn’t stop. He just held me tighter, wrapped me up in straitjacket arms, immobile and powerless against him. He bit me on the curve of my neck, worrying my flesh like a dog going at a wild rabbit. When I yelped he stopped, and I had to urge him on. I couldn’t look away from our coupling, reflected in the dresser mirror. I felt whole again, somehow.

“Don’t quit now,” I panted. “Do it, leave your mark on me.” I was hard as iron.

He breathed hot on my neck, “He’ll know.”

“Let him know.”

“They’ll _all_ know. They’ll all know I’ve had you.”

“Let them know, I want them to know, I want ’em to see, all of them—” I wasn’t even sure myself who I meant. Cumberbatch, to show him the extent of Zach’s desire? Colton, to really give him something to sulk about? Alice, to make her regret turning me down when she had the chance? “—all of them, the whole wide world—”

He whispered, “Yes, sweetheart, the whole wide world—” before he sank his teeth in again and squeezed his fingers around my throat for good measure. He pushed me face down and savaged me like that, rutting deeper into me with every thrust and pressing his teeth, his nails, his fingers into me wherever he could reach. He got his other hand underneath me and jerked me into a torturous climax, then rode me through the tremors until I begged him to end it and fill me up.

Afterwards, a smoldering Gauloise balanced on his lip, he rummaged in the bedside drawer. He emerged with a silk handkerchief bearing the familiar BC insignia.

“What’s that for?” I asked sharply. I was reminded too keenly of the night at the jazz club, of the disgusting way Cumberbatch sniffed at the handkerchief Zach had used to wipe me down.

“Why, to clean you off a little,” he answered with a smile. “Roll over?”

“Roll over for you, play dead?” I snapped. “Is that it? And then what, will you deliver that scum to your master, like the faithful hound you are?”

He drew back from me at once, his mouth tight and thin. “You turn on a dime, lover,” he said coolly. “What is it that sets you off? Let me know, and I’ll avoid it in future. If you’d rather lie there and ooze, by all means, do so.”

My ire drained. “I’m sorry,” I muttered. “I didn’t mean it. But I’m jumpy all the time in this house. I never know what to believe with you.”

He looked away. “When one must lie as a matter of survival, it becomes a habit.”

“I wish you’d break it.”

“So do I,” he said, and finished his cigarette.

I rolled over in the bed, just as he’d asked. “Come on then, clean me off.” It was my way of making up for what I’d said. I knew it stung to hear me make him out to be a dog, a beast, throw it in his face just like Cumberbatch did. So if it made him feel better to foul up his handkerchief, it was no skin off my nose.

“Does he tell you his plans?” I asked as he worked.

His fingers never stopped. “What do you mean?”

“I believe he means to marry off Alice.”

“Unlikely.”

“No, I really think he does. Hasn’t he said anything?”

“He’s mentioned no suitors. To whom, exactly, do you think he plans to marry her? There—” he patted my buttock. “Good as new.”

I turned over, and reached out for him. I wanted to embrace him, keep him close, quell the flutter of panic that started up when he moved an inch away. He went readily enough into my arms, his nose pressed up against my cheek. “To me,” I said. “I think he plans to marry her to _me_.”

There was a long pause, and then Zach said, “Sweetheart, are you quite right in the head?”

“No, listen,” I insisted. “It makes sense.” And I laid out my deductions for him.

He said nothing while he traced circles on my chest, deep in thought, and then tweaked my nipple. “I’m beginning to think you’re sweet on her.”

“I’m not,” I replied at once. “Not like that. Besides, isn’t that what you meant in that conversation I overheard? You don’t want Alice pulled into the mud like the rest of us?”

For a few moments, there was nothing but the sound of his breath, slow and considered. “You know, it _would_ make things simpler if you and Alice…But I thought you wanted to escape? Get out of here, and drag us all into your American ideal of impoverished freedom?”

“Of course I do,” I said, stung. “Of course. I’m not suggesting that I _approve_ of the idea. And I don’t appreciate your choice of words, either, you sound downright un-Ameri—”

“Oh, rabbit,” he chuckled, and pulled me close to kiss.

“Let me stay with you tonight,” I said afterwards. “Sleep here. He’ll never know, and even if he did, I doubt he’d care.”

He hesitated. “He would care, Chris.”

“He brought me here for you. He doesn’t care that we’re lovers.”

“He doesn’t care that I fuck you.”

“That’s a lousy way to put it,” I muttered, and he smoothed a hand over my cheek.

“You’re right, but it’s the way he thinks of it. That’s all I meant. If he knew it was more than that…well, I don’t know what he’d do. But he won’t stand for me caring for others if I don’t care for him. So you see, you can’t sleep here. I can’t risk us being found curled up and happy together by one of the boys in the morning. If Colton or Miles should mention it—”

“They wouldn’t,” I said. “They’ll keep their mouths shut if you ask them to.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But still—” He got out of the bed. “—I don’t want to make them feel the need to cover for me. He pays their wages, after all. I won’t ask them to decide between their pockets and their sense of honor.”

“Listen,” I started, but he merely held out my robe. There was no point begging, so I got out of the bed and changed tack. “Was it all true, that story you told me tonight?”

“It was.” He gave a smile. “You know, I’ve never told anyone the whole thing like that? I feel quite unburdened. Perhaps there’s something to be said for truth-telling. Now tell me, _are_ we friends again? Or should I expect a cold shoulder tomorrow?”

Friends? It wasn't friendship I wanted from him. I pulled on my robe and balled up my pajamas to carry. I needed the bathroom, badly. “If you want to be friends, don’t lie to me. You hear? Don’t tell half-truths, don’t cover things up. Not anymore.”

“I shan’t,” he said, and leaned in to kiss me.

I let him, but then I said, “And don’t use that accent with me, either.”

“I can’t help the way I speak.”

“You know what I mean.”

He didn’t reply to that, and we walked together to the door. He put a hand on my arm to stop me. “Goodnight, then. Won’t you say goodnight? I don’t like to go to bed with you angry, not tonight. Not after everything.”

“I’m not angry.” I was angry, alright. Even out cold, Cumberbatch was still controlling the scene, calling his dog home.

“Well, then?” he asked patiently.

“Goodnight,” I mumbled. He pushed me gently out with a hand in the small of my back, and shut the door behind me so softly I had to turn back just to check he’d actually closed it.

He had. The key turning in the lock confirmed his resolve.

I set off back to my room, scratching comfortably at my belly, and smiled, thinking of something Ma used to say when she didn’t want me playing with the rough Irish boys two doors down. “If you lie down with dogs, you get up with fleas,” I whispered to myself.

If only I’d taken it to heart.

 

 


	11. Whirlpool

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Take me to him,” she said at once.
> 
> I leant against the wall and pulled out a cigarette, toying with it before I lit it. “Now that’s interesting,” I said. “You seem to think you’ve got a handle on the haps.”

The following Saturday we went out as a group—Cumberbatch, Zach, Alice and I—to the Birdhouse nightclub. Pegg did not accompany us. I was never sure what Pegg’s status was with things like that. Was he high up enough on the ladder to be counted as a guest, or would he simply have been ordered to come as part of his hazily-defined work? I didn’t find out quite where the line lay that night either. He had some time off, “For good behavior,” he’d told me cheerfully, and so it was just the four of us. I sat in the back of the car with Alice, twitching and tugging at my shirt collar to keep it over the bruising Zach had left me with.  So much for _let them all know_ , I thought wryly. Cumberbatch made a silent, black silhouette in the front next to Zach, who drove. It was a half hour drive, but Alice was so excited she chattered the whole way and made things less awkward than I’d expected.

The Birdhouse was far superior to the club I’d taken Zach and Cumberbatch that terrible night. Chet Baker, Miles Davis, and all the West Coast jazz players had taken turns on the Birdhouse stage. Sinatra’d been trying to pick up his singing career again, and I figured that was why he was playing with the cool cats. Still, he was a big name, and we expected a crowd. We’d booked a table in advance. Cumberbatch’s money guaranteed it would be a good one. It was: center front, in spitting distance of the stage.

There was a warm up jazz trio, and then a quartet, and we sank a couple of bottles of champagne among the four of us and passed the time in safe chit chat. Sinatra wasn’t due until after midnight, so we had a wait, but I was enjoying myself. Zach was excellent company when he chose to be, and even Cumberbatch seemed mellower than usual. Alice was electric that night, dressed in pale pink with her hair coiled on top of her head. She was excited and charming and almost impossible to look away from. Every man in the place took a peek, even the ones I’d pegged as light in their loafers. She was a knockout, no denying.

The quartet left, and the stage lights dimmed. A spotlight picked out a tall, reed-thin figure on stage: a woman dressed in a gown so white it seemed to shine pale blue like the moon. The skirt swirled around her ankles like sea foam. A headdress of spindly white feathers covered her hair and face. I thought I was seeing things for a moment—a ghost, maybe, or a wish?—but no, she lifted up her face and there she was. The Magnolia Girl.

I sucked in a breath, but it was covered by Cumberbatch’s oath. The three of us glanced at him, but he remained fixated on the stage. On my Magnolia Girl. She began to sing, and my attention was hooked. She had a marvelous voice, rich and warm, though her song choice struck me as strange.

“What is this?” Cumberbatch croaked. “What is this song?” He drank down his scotch, spilling some of it down his front. Alice looked startled.

Zach, on the other hand, was resting his chin in his hand and giving a dreamy smile at the stage. “It’s Lady Day,” he said.

I said, “Yes, Billie Holliday used to sing this. It’s Gloomy Sunday. Dour sort of song, but it’s been popular from time to time. Got banned for a while. People take exception to the subject.”

She sang it less like a suicide song and more like a threat; like she was going to finish her tune and knife death itself through the heart. She sang it clear and proud and the whole joint hung on every note from her lips. Her headpiece and the lighting made it difficult to see her face and Cumberbatch was peering at her, trying to make out her features.

Zach leaned close and murmured something, but Cumberbatch made an impatient gesture and moved away. Zach seemed irritated. The Englishman was grey in the face, and I wondered if he were going to keel over right here. That’d make a story for the press, alright. _Sodomite Peer Expires in Sordid Songclub_.

“What on earth’s the matter, Benny?” Alice asked, echoing my thoughts. “You look quite unwell.”

“Who is that woman?” he demanded of her, but it was like he didn’t recognize to whom he spoke.

“I’ve no idea,” she replied, startled.

He turned to me next. “You! This was your idea.”

My first reaction was defensive and ugly. “It damn well wasn’t my idea to invite _you_.”

“What’s got into you, Benny?” Zach asked, his voice like treacle. “She’s just a torch singer. She’s very good, I grant you. Shall I invite her to our table?”

Cumberbatch shoved back his chair and walked off without the usual niceties. Zach rose as well.

“Excuse me,” he said. “I’ll…” He made a vague gesture, and sauntered away.

Alice and I were left together. She looked surprised but thoughtful. Zach had left his cigarette case on the table and she plucked out a Gauloise to set in her holder. I gave her a light, and she fixed me with her eyes. Beyond us, the Magnolia Girl had gone and a quintet took center stage instead, starting up a trumpet-heavy Miles Davis cover.

“Do you know that woman?” Alice asked me.

It put me on the spot. “I do, as it happens.”

“I thought you might, from your face when she came on. Introduce me.”

“What?”

“Send backstage and ask her to join us here at the table. I’ll get another bottle of champagne. Does she drink champagne?”

“She—I—don’t know,” I said hesitantly. “She drinks bourbon, though she doesn’t like it. I guess she’d drink champagne. Who doesn’t?”

“Who doesn’t?” she echoed, and rewarded me with a smile. “Go on, then. I’d like to meet her. Find her out and bring her back.”

Feeling rather like a hunting dog sent to bring back a pellet-riddled duck, I set off to find someone to let me backstage. I found something better: the door. It didn’t take me long to locate my prey. She was pacing up and down one of the corridors, and when she saw me she gave a triumphant smile.

“Take me to him,” she said at once.

I leant against the wall and pulled out a cigarette, toying with it before I lit it. “Now that’s interesting,” I said. “You seem to think you’ve got a handle on the haps.”

She turned angry. “Don’t try to put me off. I _know_ he sent you to find me.”

“The Lady Alice Eve,” I said blandly, “requests the pleasure of your company.”

“The who, now?” she replied. “That blonde bit he brought with him?”

That got me riled. “That blonde bit is his cousin, and she’s a lady by name _and_ by nature, so you watch your tongue.” I didn’t like the look she gave me then, sly and knowing. “And don’t gawp at me like that, either. What the hell are you doing playing canary, anyway?”

“My friend caught a sore throat, so I stepped in. Where’ve _you_ been lately?”

I coughed on my cigarette. “Around.”

“I was just about ready to hire a private dick to track you down.”

“What? Why?”

“Because you _disappeared_ , you ninny. I heard you hollering at your boy one night, and then I never saw you after that. I started to think maybe you’d gone toes-up.”

“I moved; that’s all. I moved.”

“Sure you did. I’ll bet he’s got you right where he wants you now, wherever that might be.” She took in my expression, and shook her head. “And you still don’t know it.”

“It wasn’t his doing,” was all I could say. I was still brooding over her words. I was curiously unsurprised by her leap to murder. I’d felt it too, that sucking whirlpool of suspicion and doubt, like something somewhere was lurking, waiting. Maybe it was something in the water at the Chateau, made us all paranoid.

“What’s her name, again?” she asked. “Lady what’s-it?”

“Alice,” I said automatically. “Lady Alice Eve.” I dropped my cigarette and ground it out with my toe.

She darted through a nearby doorway. Over her shoulder I could see inside; it was a tiny dressing room, not much bigger than a cupboard. She grabbed up a fur wrap, thrust it at me, and turned her back on me.

I looked at it, and then at her.

“You could at least _pretend_ to be a gentleman,” she said caustically over her shoulder, and I hurried to wrap her with the mink.

“Where’d you get a piece like that?” I asked, stroking it when she turned around.

“Where’d _you_ get a two-dollar haircut and squeaky patent shoes?” she retorted.

I flushed. I’d been seeing Zach’s barber for a while now, and he did cost a fortune, but it was worth it, I thought. The shoes were a new addition to my wardrobe from last week. I’d fallen in love with the way I could see my face reflected in them, and Zach had approved of them, too. They did tend to squeak when I walked, though.

“Come on, then,” she said. “Introduce me to your fine lady friend.”

“Now, just wait a minute. I don’t know if I like this. Why are you so anxious to meet my crowd? Why is Alice so anxious to meet _you_?” I didn’t add, though I could have, _And why is Lord Cumberbatch so anxious to avoid you?_

“Sorry, Little Boy Blue. Can’t keep me all to yourself any longer,” she told me, and started walking.

“Hey!” I caught her arm and pulled her back. “I don’t want you getting caught up in…in anything. Not like I have. You don’t know what you’re up against.”

She actually laughed. “Oh, puppy. You’re pretty, but dumb.” She arranged a smile on her lips with the same artifice she used to arrange her wrap, and snaked an arm through mine. “Girls like me, we know exactly what we’re up against. Now let’s go.”

I’m a slave for a looker. I let her push me back out to the club. Cumberbatch was nowhere to be seen, and Zach was at the bar, talking to the barman. I dragged my feet when I saw the way the kid was stuck on him. Zach was looking at him from under the sweep of his eyelashes, and I knew the power of that look all too well.

“Come on,” the Magnolia Girl hissed at me, and pulled me onward.

Alice was waiting for us at the table, and it was only as we reached her that I realized I had no idea about English formalities.

“Uh,” I said eloquently, and gestured towards Alice. “This is…Lady Alice Eve?” Alice, thankfully, smiled. I continued, “And, uh—”

“Zoë,” the Magnolia Girl said. “Just Zoë. Pleased to meet you, ma’am.”

She curtsied.

“Oh,” Alice said, and I’d bet my hat that if not for her finishing schools and her English cool, she would have cringed. Instead, she jumped up and took the Magnolia Girl’s hands in her own. “Call me Alice, please. How lovely to meet you. I was so moved by your performance. Won’t you join us for a drink? Zach is ordering champagne. I always think champagne tastes better with jazz, don’t you?”

I started to think that maybe the Magnolia Girl had been right. Maybe girls like her did know what they were up against, and how to handle it, if she could reduce Alice to babbling.

“Gee, thanks, honey. I will,” Zoë said, and parked herself in the chair Cumberbatch had left vacant. She shook up her mink like a bird settling to roost. “My, it’s cooler out here front of house. Those hot lights on stage make it feel deep summer.” She fluffed a second time.

“What a darling mink that is,” Alice said hurriedly, and we sat as well.

“Why, thank you. A friend gave it to me.”

“She has exquisite taste.”

“Oh, she did, yes. But she’s dead now. I guess you could say I inherited her taste.”

“My goodness. I’m so sorry,” Alice murmured, and lit another cigarette. “Was it recent?” She had a bewildered air about her. _How odd_ _Americans are_ , she seemed to be thinking.

The Magnolia Girl leaned in close, like she was whispering secrets. “Yes, quite recent. It was a terrible shock, her murder.”

Yes. Girls like her really did know what they were up against. She could play Alice alright, with her English aversion to intimacy with strangers. Alice looked away as though the very mention of death was shameful.

“Murder, you say?” I broke in boldly, and lit Alice’s cigarette for her.

“That’s right.”

“You never mentioned it before.”

“You never asked.”

“I’m sorry I’ve been so long,” Zach interrupted, sweeping back to the table and followed by a waiter carrying champagne and a tray of glasses. “I had a devil of a time finding the right vintage. Hullo, there. I’m Zach.” He stood again to lean over and proffer his hand. She shook it.

“Zoë.”

“Gorgeous mink.”

Zoë opened her mouth to trot out the dead friend again—why, I hadn’t a clue, but she was determined to do it, and I could tell by the look in her eye. I thwarted her.

“What do you do with your time, Zoë, when you’re not holding a crowd spellbound at the Birdhouse?”

She gave me an arch look. “This and that. Mostly I’m searching out my friend’s killer.”

“I say, are you really?” Alice asked. Her natural curiosity had overcome her reserve.

“I sure am.”

“Isn’t that rather dangerous?” Zach asked. “The sort of thing that should be left to the police?”

“To tell you the truth, I’m not at all sure the police weren’t involved somewhere along the way,” Zoë said, and took the cigarette that Zach offered her. “But it’s hard to tell. See, it was the Incubus did her in.”

Behind him, the waiter was working out the cork of the champagne bottle, and it gave with a sudden pop. We all jumped—all of us but Zach, whose dark eyes were fixed on the Magnolia Girl’s face. He said: “I believe I’ve seen you around Chateau Marmont.”

“’S’pect so. You go there a lot?” She gave him an unsubtle wink and slid her eyes towards me.

“What was her name?” Zach asked. “Your friend.” The waiter began pouring out the drinks.

“Rachel. She was a jazz singer. Used to sing that Gloomy Sunday song every Saturday night here, so I took over for her.”

“You said your friend caught a sore throat,” I objected. “And that’s why you were here.”

Zoë gave me the kind of sympathetic look women give to the runt of the litter. “Well, she did, didn’t she? Caught the sorest throat there is.” Zach gave a cough that sounded like he was covering up for a laugh, but Zoë continued over the top of him. “Rachel lived at Chateau Marmont before she was killed. Someone’d set her up cozy, but she never said who in her letters. Played coy about it. Some rich fella looking out for her career, I guess.”

It seemed to me that the three of us listening were immobile, tensed for flight, just waiting to see what she’d say next. The only movement was the plume of smoke that streamed from Zach’s lips across the table. He wasn’t laughing anymore.

Zoë kept talking, like nothing would keep her from telling the whole tale. “We sang together when we were younger, only she was real determined to make a go of it. _Real_ determined. She always wore white, liked to think it was her trademark. I got the call when they found her. She had no living relatives, y’see, or none they could find. She’d left all her clothes to me, and she was paid-up at the Chateau until the end of the year. So what I figured was, even if I can’t find some justice for her, maybe I can haunt her killer at least.”

The waiter put the bottle in the ice bucket, gave a quick nod of the head to Zach, and retreated.

“That’s…” I wanted to say _foolish_ , but it seemed cruel.

“Brave,” Alice said, chin in hand and listening intently. “Extremely brave of you.”

Zoë fluffed out her mink again in self-satisfaction. “I made some friends at the _Examiner_ , in return for a few stories on Rachel. They’ve been giving me tips, sharing leads, as long as I give tit for tat. So maybe I’ll uncover something. I’d like to bury whoever did it, and that’s a fact, but I’d settle just for knowing.”

“They’re making out this Incubus will strike again,” Zach said. “Aren’t they? The papers, I mean. Don’t you worry he might come after you?”

“Worry?” Zoë gave a bright, vicious smile. “Oh, no. I’m banking on it. I want my shot at him. Besides, the way the papers tell it, he’s on the look out for blondes, this Incubus. Prefers ’em. Guess he must be a gentleman.” She laughed at her own joke. None of us joined her. Zoë gave Alice a glance from beneath her eyelashes. “Say, Goldilocks, maybe it’s _you_ should be worried. I’ll bet you’re just _surrounded_ by gentlemen.”

Alice went pale. Zach said coldly: “You’ll forgive me, but I think you should let the whole thing drop. Let the police do their job.”

Zoë raised an eyebrow. “You’re not from Los Angeles, mister, or you wouldn’t be saying that. God helps those who help themselves around here. Now I’ll admit I was scared at first, but I found the cure for that.”

“Which is?” Zach asked.

“Righteous anger,” she told him.

Alice raised up her glass of champagne. “Well. To Rachel,” she said somberly.

“To Rachel,” we chorused, and I drained my glass. Zach filled it again without a glance at me.

“I thought you had another fella with you,” Zoë said, setting down her glass. “Thought I saw him from the stage.”

“Where _is_ Benny?” Alice asked.

“Benny is indisposed,” Zach said. “He’s taken a taxi home. Zoë, can you tell us what Frank Sinatra’s like? You must let us in on some backstage gossip.” With that, he steered the conversation into safer waters, although I could tell that Zoë, beautiful and brave and full of rage, was letting him take the lead. She was biding her time like a cat plays with a mouse, that half-smile on her lips and an edge to her trickling laughter.

When we’d killed the champagne I went to the bar to get a hard drink. The barman grinned at me like we shared a secret, until I gave him no tip and got the scowl treatment instead. Zach came up behind me and pressed closer than he ought to’ve done in public.

“You never said you were making such great friendships around the Chateau,” he murmured, and nodded his head at the barman for a second bourbon-on-the-rocks.

I drained mine while we stood there.

“What happened to him?” I asked. Zach shifted his brow to confused. Before he could insult my intelligence, I said, “You promised you’d quit the lying. Remember?”

“He went home,” he said with a shrug, and paid the barman a 100% tip on his drink. He poked at the ice in it like he was fishing for something underneath.

“Why?”

“He said he was ill.”

I shifted to face him front-on and leaned against the bar. “I don’t know,” I said, “why I ever waste my breath asking you these things. You just clam up tight and give me looks like I’m crazy for wanting to know something. God knows if there’s really something going on or if you’re just acting like there is.”

“ _You_ didn’t tell _me_ about Zoë,” he said quietly, and he looked square at me then. “She’s going to get herself into trouble she can’t get out of. If you care for her, I suggest you tell her to stop this nonsense, pack up and go home.”

I looked over his shoulder. “Tell her yourself,” I said, and finished my drink. He jerked his head around to see her standing there, mink arranged to show off one bare shoulder.

“Please do,” she said. “I’m all ears.”

Quinto got two burning marks high up on his cheekbones, but he held his ground. “It’s foolish. You’ve buried your friend. Why not save your mama a broken heart and get out of the city before the same happens to you?”

I raised my eyebrows. “Well, well. The gloves come off.”

“I’ll say. Was that a threat, Mr. Quinto?” Zoë asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” he snorted. “It’s advice, is all. Solid advice you should take. Any man would tell you the same.”

“I wonder if they would. I wonder. Alice, on the other hand, is wondering if you’re getting another bottle of champagne,” she said.

“We are not,” Zach told her. “We’re going home. It was a pleasure to meet you; excuse me.” He stalked off to the table, and leaned over to speak to Alice. She looked put out.

He’d left his bourbon on the bar, so I drank it for him, and then gave a wet grin at my Magnolia Girl. “I’ll say this for you: you weren’t kidding around, what you said before. You can handle yourself alright.”

She scrutinized me head to toe and gave a sigh. “Pity you can’t do the same. Do you always gotta be drunk like that?”

“Do I always gotta be?” I laughed, and she glared. “Why, no, but I prefer to be. Helps soothe the mind and allay fears. We can’t all find that righteous anger you talked about.”

“I’ll tell you this much, buster, you better find it before long. That daddy of yours ain’t fooling anyone. He’s guilty of something, and that’s the truth.”

“For Christ’s sake,” I said. “I’m sorry about your friend, really I am, but Zach’s not the one who killed her.”

“Of course not,” she scoffed. “I know _that._ He’s queer as a three-dollar bill. Whoever killed Rachel was nice and intimate with her. But he knows something about it. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was that fella you had with you, the one who ran out. Why would he go otherwise?”

Alice and Zach’s polite discussion about leaving was getting noisy. She was refusing to move, and he was imploring her with increasing heat.

I told Zoë, “He’s not your man either, the one who was with us before. Lord Benedict Cumberbatch is impotent.” It felt good to say it out loud, to roll that word around on my tongue and lick my lips to savor the taste. It was the only power I really had over him. She stared at me, so I added, “He can’t get it up. No juice.”

“I know what _impotent_ means,” she said icily. “I just don’t know if I believe you.”

“Oh, well. That’s up to you. Excuse me, won’t you?” I brushed past her. Zach’s face was thunderous and he had a hand wrapped around Alice’s clutch bag like it was a substitute for her throat. “Cut it out,” I hissed. “People are staring. You’re making a scene.”

He let the bag go at once, and she snatched it up. “I’m not going,” she said calmly. “We came to see Sinatra after all, and besides, I want to talk more with Zoë. I’ll take a taxi home after the show.”

Zach said in a low, angry tone, “Benny would never forgive me, leaving you at a jazz bar in the middle of the night, not to mention Pegg. He’d flay me alive!”

“It’s only just gone eleven,” she said. “And I _am_ a grown woman.”

“It’s a moot point,” I said. “Zoë’s scarpered.”

She had, too, when none of us were looking. My Magnolia Girl had slipped away on the Q.T., back to the Chateau I presumed, to her dead friend’s clothes and her dead friend’s bed. No wonder she’d seemed so strange when I first met her: terrified, not knowing who to trust. I wondered that she’d come to trust _me_. But then, she hadn’t, not really; only accepted a drink and sat with me for five minutes by the pool. I felt sorry for her, but in a washed-out kind of way, like I was standing behind a waterfall, removed from her pain and her sorrow. I didn’t have to feel it the way she felt it.

The evening was done for after that, with the mood soured. Alice left without any further protest. No one said much on the drive back, and when a Sinatra song came on the radio, Zach turned it off with a twist so ferocious I thought the knob would come away in his fingers. He seemed more serene by the time we reached the mansion gates, and he parked without concern right at the front door. “Pegg’ll put it away later,” he said at my raised eyebrows. “It could do with a wash, anyway. Get all that street muck off."

When we stepped into the foyer, Alice would have swept up to bed without a word if Zach hadn’t caught her hand at the bottom of the staircase. “Alice, darling, forgive me. Please. I can’t go to bed with you angry at me, I won’t sleep a wink. I was only worried that troublemaker singer had upset you and so you see…”

She softened. “You’re forgiven. I was rather pig-headed myself.”

“There, now,” I yawned. “We’ve all kissed and made up. Can we get to bed? I’m asleep on my feet. All that murder talk wore me out.”

“Enjoyed yourself?” Cumberbatch’s voice floated down to us from his position on the landing. He was leaning over the railing in a precarious manner, like an inebriated Juliet waiting for Romeo. Even from below I could see he was sauced.

Zach glanced up at him. “I’ll come and see you to bed, Benny,” he said. “Wait there.”

“I’ll do as I bloody well please,” he slurred, and dragged himself to the head of the stairs. He staggered sideways.

Alice gave a gasp, and raised her hand to her mouth. Zach and I both darted to the foot of the stairs, but Cumberbatch had caught the rail and fallen heavily to his knees. He started to laugh, a rough, choking noise too close to a sob. Zach walked slowly up the stairs and then knelt down by him.

“Come on, old boy,” he said softly. “You’ve had a difficult night. Let me help you, my best beloved.” He got the Englishman up and limping off the landing, headed towards his bedroom.

I only became aware of how hard my fists were clenched when Alice tried to take my hand. I relaxed my fingers and let her wriggle her hand into mine. Zach happened to glance down at that moment. He stopped dead, and it made Cumberbatch look blearily around, before giving a hungry stare at my fingers joined with Alice’s. “I don’t think I can make it to my bedroom,” he said.

At once, Zach said, “I’m helping you, Benny. Won’t take but a minute and you’ll be safe in bed.”

Alice’s hand tightened so hard on mine that I winced.

“No, I don’t think so,” Cumberbatch said. “Alice’s room is closer. Take me there. I’m hurt. My war injury playing up. I’ve never been the same since the war. Take me to Alice’s room. She can see to me.”

“I’ll come to your quarters,” she called up shrilly. “I’ll come and look at you there, darling.”

“It would be so much easier to take you back to your own room,” Zach agreed. “If you stop in Alice’s room, it’ll just make the journey longer.”

Cumberbatch pushed him away and staggered back towards the stairs. “Do you all _want_ me to live in pain? Is it so much to ask for such a little kindness, after everything I do for all of you?”

Alice pulled her hand out of mine and snapped her clutch bag open and shut a few times. “Alright,” she said at last.

He gave me a nasty smile. “You’d better come too, Chris. Have a nightcap.”

“Chris should go to bed,” Zach contradicted. “He’s dead on his feet. Besides, we can’t all of us crowd into Alice’s bedroom.”

“Oh, I think we’ll fit quite cozily,” Cumberbatch said. “And he doesn’t look dead to me, on the contrary. Bring up a bottle of something for us, Chris.”

Alice had gone white. “You’d better do as he says,” she murmured, and set off up the stairs. I wondered for a moment where Pegg was, what he’d make of all this; but of course, I remembered, he had the night off. He had the whole night off and had already told me his intention of staying out late as he could. _Don’t often get time out from the madhouse_ , he’d said. _Got to make the most of it_.

Maybe I should’ve dawdled more; maybe I should’ve hurried. I don’t know if it would’ve made any difference in the end. Cumberbatch had his mind made up, and he wasn’t going to let it drop. I stopped in the parlor to pick up the bottle of rum Pegg and I had made so much headway on previously, because I couldn’t stomach scotch, and I knew Cumberbatch would make me pay somehow if I took bourbon.

I didn’t want to go. As much as I’d wondered about and imagined Alice’s rooms, I didn’t want to go in there. Something terrible would happen if I did, I was sure of it. And so I took my sweet time walking up the grand staircase, before turning right at the top instead of left.

The great double doors that always blocked off Alice’s part of the mansion were still closed. I was enveloped in a familiar cloud of Cumberbatch's scent when I arrived in front of them. My stomach turned over, and I leaned against the door to wait for the nausea twisting my gut to pass on. It subsided, and I had no more excuses. I wiped the back of my hand across my wet upper lip and stared at those huge doors. I didn’t like to barge through them, trained so carefully as I was, so I gave a sheepish rap with two knuckles. I had to knock twice more, loud and sharp, before I heard quick footsteps approaching.

 


	12. No Way Out

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I did try to warn you off that night,” Alice said gently. “That first night you set eyes on the whole abnormal lot of us. Now here you are, at His Majesty’s pleasure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: this chapter contains threats, flogging/belting, non and dub-con, forced voyeurism and exhibitionism.

The doors flung open, and Zach stared at me, as furious as he had been that first day I turned up on the doorstep of the mansion claiming to be a reporter. I could hear music behind him. Even at a distance it sounded lavish and rich and demanding. It couldn’t possibly be Alice’s choice.

“What the devil are you playing at?” Zach hissed at me. “Benny’s all worked up. Why’d you take so long?” He pulled me through the doors and grabbed the bottle from my hand. “ _Rum?_ ”

“I—I could go back and—and get—”

He cut me off with an impatient wave. “There’s no time. Just make sure you do whatever he says. Don’t antagonize him any further, for Christ’s sake.”

He gave me a little push, and I set off down the hallway with him behind me. It was just as dark and oppressive as the corridor that led to our usual wing of the house, but there was a different kind of gloom hanging around the high ceiling. Dread made my tongue go dry. One of the doors was ajar, and I heard Cumberbatch’s baritone lilting from behind it, “ _Mein Irisch kind, wo weilest du?_ ”

“Here,” Zach said, and pushed open the door for me, ushering me through first.

What a place Alice’s boudoir was. Not as big as Cumberbatch’s but getting there, and stuffed to the brim with ornaments right and left. Her bed was as massive as all the others in the mansion, but with a waterfall canopy of cream taffeta and lace from above. The room was bursting with gewgaws on all the surfaces, confusing and cluttered in their multitude. As I stared around and took it in, the music from the small record player in the corner swelled, crashed, and a soprano began shrieking in German.

I started to feel woozy again.

This was no woman’s room. This was a girl’s room, with blonde porcelain dolls dressed in white silk staring at me from a shelf over there, an open jewelry box with a miniature ballerina on the counter here, and Alice in Wonderland illustrations framed along all the walls. The wallpaper was pale pink with climbing roses winding up some panels, pansies in clusters on others, and here and there a waist-coated rabbit with a large pocket watch peered out at me from behind a clover patch.

Even the furniture would have been better suited to a nursery. The dresser was too small to hold a woman’s needs. In the corner there was a small table set up for a doll’s tea party, with tiny cups and saucers and a china teapot. A golden teddy bear sat expectantly in one miniature chair, his stitched mouth cross and downturned. Three more blonde dolls populated the remaining seats, their lips pressed together, their faces beautiful but blank.

Alice herself was kneeling with her back to me in front of a grand armchair in the corner of the room. Her hands were clasped and her elbows rested on the matching footstool, as if praying.  Cumberbatch sat waiting in the armchair, one knee jauntily crossed over the other and his foot tapping out an impatient time. It struck me clear as day, then, that Alice was not the one responsible for the décor here. No, not she.

“You’ve kept us waiting, Christopher,” he said, drawling out my name like he enjoyed the taste of it. “Hasn’t he, Alice?”

She whispered something, but I couldn’t hear her over the operatics from the corner of the room.

“Louder, darling,” the Englishman said. “And it’s very rude not to look at him when you speak to him.”

She slumped back on her heels and half-turned towards me. Her face was so white I wondered she was still upright. “I said, yes, you’ve kept us waiting.”

“I’m so sorry.” I think it was the real pity I showed that got to her, because she hid her face in her hands.

“Benny, look, he’s brought your nightcap,” Zach said quickly, and held out the bottle.

“How am I supposed to drink without a glass?”

I glanced again at the doll’s tea set. “Here,” I said roughly, and walked over to grab up one of the small cups. “Tastes the same whatever it’s in. This’ll do.”

I grabbed the bottle back from Zach and poured Cumberbatch out a drop of rum in the tiny teacup. I served it with a flourish, but he only looked at me. “Perhaps in your United States they don’t care for standards,” he said, “but _I_ am an Englishman.” With that, he slapped it out of my hand. It flew out of my fingers, mercifully away from Alice, and bounced on the thick carpet, where it spilled its contents.

“Well, gee, Benny, I just don’t know what else to do for you,” I said, scratching the back of my neck. “Unless you want to drink it straight from the bottle.”

He sized me up, head to toe, but then Zach got himself involved. “Perhaps we should all go to bed,” he said hastily. “We’re all of us tired and—and overwrought.”

“Do I seem to you to be overwrought?” Cumberbatch asked me.

“Nope,” I replied, and shrugged. If he wanted me to play the dullard American, I would, if only it would take his attention from Alice. She was chewing on her lower lip now, her eyes closed, salt tracks on her pinked-up cheeks.

Zach gave me a beseeching look from where he stood at Cumberbatch’s right hand.

“But,” I continued, “it doesn’t seem right for me to be here in a lady’s chambers, even with so correct a chaperone as yourself, so I’ll see myself out—”

“Lock the door, Zach.”

“But Benny—”

Cumberbatch shot him a look that made my stomach clench. “Lock the door, Zach,” he said again, “and bring me the key.” Without another word, Zach did as he was told, and the music reached another crescendo. I winced. Cumberbatch eyed me as Zach moved around, and said, “Now this is _real_ music. Something fine and stirring. Do you know it, Chris?”

I shrugged.

“Zach. Educate your American friend.”

“It’s Wagner,” Zach said, his voice tight, and brushed by me to deposit the door key in Cumberbatch’s outstretched palm. “ _Tristan und Isolde_.”

“Two ingrates who betrayed their king, and ended up dead. But not before a lot of misery,” Cumberbatch added. “Tristan waits, you see, desperate for his love to come to him from across the ocean before he dies. But: _Öd und leer das Meer_ , Christopher. Desolate and empty is the sea.”

“They met again before his end, Benny,” Zach said softly. So much for _don’t antagonize him_.

“I don’t think any of you appreciate what I do for you,” Cumberbatch said, as he pushed the key into his waistcoat pocket. “The way I care for you and provide for you. I teach you discernment and mold your appreciation for the arts. I feed and clothe you. Alice, I’ve done nothing but embrace you as a sister your whole life, and what do I get for it? Nothing; you don’t even love me as well as you ought. You can’t wait to get away from me, can you?”

She shook her head and kept her eyes on the footstool. “It’s not like that, Benny, I told you. I want to marry so I can carry on the family line. I want to do that for you _because_ I love you.”

He sprang forward so fast in the chair that she quailed. “Carry on the family line? That’s a pretty way to put it. You think I don’t know your kind? All you can think about is spreading your legs, as soon as you came of age. It’s a sickness. You’re like a bitch in heat chained up in the yard, howling for any old mongrel to mount her.”

Zach shifted nervously as my jaw dropped. “How dare you speak to her that way?” I demanded, so astonished I ignored Zach’s warning hand signal.

Cumberbatch laughed, a drunken chortle. “Alice. Tell me. Am I wrong?”

She moved, got back to her knees, her shoulders rounded, but she raised her face. “No, Benny. You’re not wrong.”

“Tell him,” he said, gesturing in my direction.

She turned her head until she was facing my way, but her eyes looked over my shoulder as she said dully, “Benny is not wrong. Benny is never wrong.”

Isolde lamented in the background, accompanied by horns.

Cumberbatch said, “None of you have any idea what it’s like to live with the kind of responsibilities I have. My family’s lands, my family’s title, my family’s fortune—it is my _duty_ to conserve these things, to watch over them. The fact that I choose to share them with you…” He tailed off, out of steam, his train of thought chugging to a slow stop. He gave an irritated flap of the hand. “Zach, fetch me that bottle.”

Zach stepped forward to take the bottle of rum from me. He fairly had to pry it out of my hand, and dug his nails into my flesh before I let go. “What did I tell you?” he said, _sotto voce_. “Do as he says. Don’t antagonize.” I glared at him, outraged.

“What are you whispering there?” the Englishman asked sharply.

Zach tugged the bottle free of my grasp and brought it over to the armchair. He knelt down beside the chair and leant on the arm, looking up at him. “Nothing, Benny. Just reminding him of his place. We all need to remember our place, don’t we?”

Cumberbatch traced a finger down Zach’s cheek. “You certainly do, my ever-gallant Ganymede. And now I’d like a drink.”

Zach stood, uncapped the bottle and took a swig. He bent, placing his lips on the Englishman’s, and neatly spilled out the rum into Cumberbatch’s mouth. Cumberbatch kept him there, sucking at his mouth, hands on either side of Zach’s face, with no more passion in him than if it really were just a glassful of rum.

I’d never seen them kiss before.

“At least you didn’t spill it,” Cumberbatch said when he was done, and let Zach go without interest. He looked at Alice again. “Now, as for you—”

“Oh, but it wasn’t Alice’s fault, what happened tonight,” Zach said quickly. “I’m the one who wanted to go to the Birdhouse. It was my fault, the whole thing.” My head whirled. What imagined slight was Zach bringing up? I could only wonder. Zach wasn’t done; he said: “You should punish _me_ , Benny. I disappointed you, didn’t I? I wouldn’t come when you told me to, would I? You wanted to leave, but I put myself before you tonight. It’s a bad habit of mine.”

“You’re right,” Cumberbatch said. “Take off my belt.” Zach obediently unbuckled and unthreaded the leather belt, his face expressionless. He folded it in half and held it out to the Englishman. “Oh, I won’t be lowering myself, not tonight,” he said, as if in surprise. “You’re not the only one who needs to remember your purpose.”

Zach’s hand, with the belt, dropped to his side.

“What are you waiting for?”

Zach stood, turned on his heel, and marched over to me. He grabbed my hand and slapped the belt into it. It was soft and pliable, the finest Roman leather if the gold stamp inside was to be believed. The buckle was shining brass, understated and elegant, a slim bronze rectangle. Zach closed my fingers around the buckle carefully and looked into my eyes until he saw that I understood: I was not to hit him with the buckle, but only the strap.

“No,” I said. Alice had already shrunk away, moving to sit unobtrusively on the foot of her bed, her arms wrapped around the post as though she were hanging from a fifty-foot drop.

“Yes,” Zach said, and briskly let down his suspenders before he tugged free his shirt from his pants. He stripped down until he was bare-chested; bare-backed, now, as he turned and braced himself with both hands on the other bedpost. Alice hid her face against her forearm.

I looked at Cumberbatch, sprawled and slumped now in the armchair as though he were watching the most entertaining show, one finger stroking the mustache that hovered above his bitter-lipped smirk. “If you think for one second that I’m going to whip Zach for you—in front of _Alice_ —”

“ _Chris_ ,” Zach growled at me, turning his head only so he could spit my name over his shoulder. I knew his meaning. There’d be worse to come if I didn’t.

“Whip _me_ ,” I offered helplessly. “Let Zach whip me. You were right at the club, I’m the one who—I did whatever it was—”

“Chris,” Alice said, her voice muffled against her skin. “You’d better get on.”

“Please,” Zach added softly.

Cumberbatch said, “I can’t think why you’re making such a fuss. It’s nothing you haven’t done before. Besides, he likes it. Don’t you, Zach?”

“Yes, Benny.”

“You like being reminded of your place.”

“I like being reminded of my place.”

I wanted to turn on Cumberbatch then, lash out with the belt and see how many times I could strap that smug English face before Zach tackled me. It was the thought of Alice that held me back. Hitting out at Cumberbatch would have repercussions, and I didn’t mean them to fall on her.

Zach, though—he was a bird of a different feather altogether, and I couldn’t be sure even now that his actions were entirely altruistic. My palm was sweaty, and I had to grip the belt tighter, ignore the metal of it biting into my skin. _Do it_ , everything in me that was sensible and logical said. _Do it_.

I did it. I swung the belt in a half-hearted manner but was still shocked at the noise it made when it cracked against Zach’s shoulder. He barely moved, though his muscles leapt under his skin.

“Good God,” Cumberbatch droned. “Put some effort into it, man.” From the record-player, the entire orchestra boomed together and then fell into a gentle woodwind lull.

I struck again with more force, and this time Zach flinched.

“Better. But this time, stand more to the left—that’s right—yes, you’ll get a better swing that way. Zach prefers it quite hard, don’t you Zach?”

“Yes, Benny.”

“Yes. He likes to really _feel_ it. Likes to show off the evidence of it, too, and he can’t do that unless you leave your signature on him.”

I shuffled over as instructed, closer to Alice, whose hands were still clenched on the bedpost, her forehead pressed against them, her eyes closed. I didn’t dare look directly at her in case it drew Cumberbatch’s attention. I focused my mind on the task at hand. _Pretend you’re beating the rug_ , I told myself, _like you did back at home_. Ma’d made me beat the dust out of the hallway runner every week because I had a mean swing, or so she said. I’d honed it playing baseball with the other kids on my street, had a dream for a while to make it to the big leagues. Get myself as famous as Babe Ruth in his heyday. Take care of my family.

I’d given up the baseball dreams after my father died, but I’d still taken out my moods on that carpet rug every Saturday morning in the back yard, thumping up a dust storm. My ma never let me back in the house until I washed off under the tap, sluicing off the gray veil all that grime bestowed on me. That rug must’ve been the cleanest in the neighborhood.

So I lashed at Zach with as much fervor as I ever gave that old rug, until he cried out, and made me falter on the next stroke. He turned fast and caught the belt mid-flight, yanking it out of my hand.

He was transformed; his lips pulled back in a snarl and his eyes glittered black and dangerous. I took a step backwards. “Sorry,” I gasped at him, and realized I was panting as heavily as he was. Both of us sweat-soaked and aroused—I could see his prick straining at his pants, and curled my lip derisively before I could stop myself.

“Well, well,” Cumberbatch said with a laugh. “I say, Alice, have a look at this. Like two circling tomcats not sure who’ll come out on top.”

Cumberbatch knew just how to play it. I guess that’s the benefit of having gone through hell with a man: you know the darkest part of his soul. I didn’t even have a chance to duck before Zach grabbed me by the throat and dragged me to the bed, thrusting me up against the pole in his place. With his other hand, he took the leather belt from me and raised his arm. The buckle caught the light, swinging from the free end, and I croaked, “No!”

“Stop it!” Alice said sharply. She was looking up, just like her cousin had told her to, and even rose in my defense, pulling herself up the post. “Zach, _stop_.”

He stopped immediately, like a well-trained attack dog, and the belt fell from his fingers.

Cumberbatch laughed. “Why stop now? Isn’t this what you wanted?”

I had no idea who he meant. I was busy staring at Zach, who was panting hard as though it helped keep his turmoil at bay.

Lord Cumberbatch kept on. “You seek a husband, Alice? Well, why not one of these two? Wouldn’t _that_ be cozy, the four of us made into a family by the bonds of matrimony? Simply the perfect solution, I should have thought.”

“Benny, please d—” Zach started.

“Don’t interrupt me!” the Englishman spat. “Well, Alice? Would you like that, to take Zach as your intended?”

We all froze, but after a moment I saw Alice shake her head as though bothered by a persistent fly.

“No? Well, I suppose it wouldn’t do, after all. God knows he’d never consummate the marriage.” Cumberbatch gave a short screech of laughter that made me jump. “He might as well be impotent when it comes to women. Isn’t that right, Zach?”

“Yes, Benny,” he replied, but his eyes were on me as though gauging my intentions. Was I going to do something foolish? I didn’t know myself.

“Chris, then,” Cumberbatch droned on. “I know you like him. I’ve seen you watching him. What do you think of him?” She did not reply, but the Englishman gave a genial smile. He hadn’t moved from his chair but he lolled around in it from side to side as if to get a better view. “Do you think him sweet? Do you believe he’d want you without the promise of your inheritance, or without your pretty face? You should know what kind of man he is, this truckling vagrant.” He looked at Zach. “Let’s show her. Show her she’s wasting her favors. Christopher’s heart is taken, is it not?”

The air felt suffocating to me, as though Cumberbatch had polluted it with the slow hiss of his poisonous words. I found it hard to catch my breath.

“Go on, then,” Cumberbatch insisted. “Show her, Zach. Kiss and make up.”

Zach shot an agonized look at Alice, and a wordless dialogue passed between them. When he came at me again I shrank back, but he gathered me up in his arms and kissed me ardently, swallowing down my air and breathing it back into my mouth.

I gasped in huge lungfuls once he let me go and sat me on the bed. Alice had swung to the other side of the post now, putting some distance between herself and the main event, but Cumberbatch had her number.

“Alice, my dearest, you’re not usually this reticent. Go on, sit next to him. Don’t be shy.”

And so she couldn’t escape getting smeared by the whole mess. She slipped back around to sit on the foot of the bed, close enough that the dip of the mattress made me lean into her. Her full satin skirts—she had not changed from the jazz club—brushed my fingers, smooth and cool. Zach, meanwhile, was stripping off my tie and opening up my collar. I recoiled as his knuckle pressed against the bruise he’d left there.

“You see, Alice?” Cumberbatch giggled. “There’s a love bite if ever I saw one. Can you guess whose it is? I believe we could take teeth imprints off it if we had to.” The three of us ignored him. Zach nudged my legs wider by kicking gently at my ankles. I looked up at him, helpless, my neck aching, and he brushed his fingertips over my cheek.

“Don’t,” I whispered, and he snatched them away at once. But I hadn’t meant that. What I’d meant was, _don’t make me do this_. I expected, any moment, the order from Cumberbatch: for Zach to take my mouth while I sat there next to Alice, to put on a show for him and for another audience member, unwilling and appalled with a front-row seat for the whole thing.

“On your knees,” Cumberbatch said, and he sounded amused.

I shook my head. But I’d been wrong, all wrong. It was Zach who sank down, pushing my thighs open as he did so he could slither up close to me, and pull at the button of my pants. I jerked in confusion as he flicked it open, and made short work of the zipper.

“Always blushing,” Cumberbatch murmured.

“ _Stop_ —” I said, but it was too late. Zach had fished me out with a practiced hand, and paused only to spit in his palm.

I could feel my ears burning.

Zach glanced up at me. “Perk up, bunny,” he said, as though I were the one at fault.

I didn’t want to look at Alice, but I could feel her watching me, and my eyes slid inevitably sideways before I wrenched my attention back to Zach, who was still ministering to me, unresponsive as I was. I’d noticed one thing at least: I might have been bright red, but Alice was not.

Zach gave a small, impatient sigh, and stuffed my limp flesh into his mouth. I choked on my protest, and my hands flew up of their own accord to hide my face. The sounds were loud and obscene in the room, as though Zach were making it clear how hard he was trying, with no luck.

“It’s no fun if I can’t see his face,” Cumberbatch said.

A small hand wrapped around my wrist and tugged. “You’re embarrassing him,” Alice said. “Aren’t they, darling? They’re embarrassing you. No wonder you can’t…Come here.” She pulled me close to her and tucked my face into her neck. I could smell perfume wafting warm from her cleavage: powdery, expensive, European. With one hand she petted my hair, smoothing it back from my hot ears and sweaty brow; her other arm circled my shoulders. Zach was still busy in my lap.

“I’m so sorry,” I gritted out. My vision blurred with tears, and I was ashamed.

She tipped my face up to hers. “Don’t give it a moment’s thought,” she said lightly, as though I’d merely held her too close during a waltz. Zach’s tongue was probing at me, flicking into every nook and cranny he could find, but he might as well have been sucking at my elbow for all the good it was doing.

It was not until Alice very gently and deliberately brushed her nose against mine, her mismatched eyes looming large before my watery ones, that anything changed below. I must have whimpered or made some noise; Zach released me with a loud accusatory pop of his lips, just in time to see Alice press her mouth to mine, her eyelashes tickling me as they fluttered closed.

It was a passionless kiss, but all the more erotic for it, like she was doing it just to save me, to help out a friend in need with his little problem. It was that idea that she didn’t need me, didn’t want me, that struck me the most, and my cock filled out under Zach’s hot breath.

Alice’s fingers wrapped again around my left wrist, and she gave a slight tug. I let her guide my hand, my lips still pressed in her chaste kiss, and Zach’s begrudging mouth on my prick once more, until I felt the slippery swell of her satin-clad breast under my palm. I moaned, and she breathed a laugh into my mouth.

An enormous crash made all three of us jump, and I was lucky Zach had enough control of himself not to do me an injury. Cumberbatch, having kicked the footstool into the side of the bed, was stalking towards us, his fury fixed on me, and his hand drawing back to strike.

Zach sprang up fast enough to deflect the Englishman, catching him by the shoulders and stalling him. “Benny, Benny, you mustn’t—”

I hastily tucked myself away and lumbered off the bed. Cumberbatch dodged sideways and swiped at me around Zach’s restraining arm. “You filthy gutter rat,” he spat. “You keep your goddamn hands to yourself, or I’ll have them cut off!”

I should have laughed in his face. It should have been just another melodramatic moment in the collection of moments I’d had with him, but somehow it wasn’t. His eyes were lit up with hatred and I suspected he’d sever my limbs himself if he had half a chance. I fled to the door, only remembering after I’d rattled at the doorknob that it was locked. Locked, and the key held by a crazed, threatening aristocrat.

Alice was still sitting on the bed, smoothing her skirt down. I almost thought I saw a smirk tugging at the corner of her pink mouth, but when I looked closer, she was as expressionless as the dolls attending the tea party in the corner.

In Zach’s arms, Cumberbatch buckled. Zach took the opportunity to half-carry, half-manhandle the Englishman back to the chair. “Benny, you’re not yourself, you’re unwell,” he murmured. “Sit here for a moment and then I’ll take you to your bed. You need to rest, my best beloved.” He turned towards me and tossed the key in a gentle arc through the air.

I caught it clumsily, and looked at Alice again. I didn’t want to leave her here with her cousin, not like this.

“Get out,” Zach said. “Go.”

I obeyed him, and assumed Alice would too. I unlocked the door as fast as my shaking hands could manage, but when I glanced up, Alice had stayed put on the bed. She was staring with narrowed eyes at Zach.

“Get _out_ ,” Zach snapped at me; so I got.

 

***

 

When I woke the next morning it took a minute or two to figure out what I felt so dirty about. Then it all came back to me, and I stumbled to scrub myself just about raw under the shower. I still felt squalid when I got out, but at least I _looked_ clean. I wrapped myself in the first robe my hand fell on, and made my way to Zach’s room.

I didn’t bother knocking. If I could catch him out again, by God, I would. But he was sitting up in bed reading the paper and chewing at a jammy piece of toast from the tray over his lap. He barely glanced up.

The first thing out of me was an accusation. “You _told_ him!”

He closed the paper and wiped off his fingers on the napkin. I thought he’d play dumb, but for once I got a straight answer, though that didn’t make it any easier to swallow. “I said nothing to Benny about your asinine ideas of marrying Alice. But I did my best to make some enquiries about his plans, just like I thought you wanted me to do. I suppose he must have guessed.”

“You’re telling me last night was _my_ fault?”

“I’m telling you that kicking at a hornet’s nest is a bad idea. Has it never occurred to you, dear heart, that my keeping you in the dark is a kindness?”

“You _promised_ —”

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph!” Zach said, and I caught a twang in his accent I’d never heard before, the faintest hint of an Irish brogue. “I’m not _lying_ to you, for the love of Christ. If you _have_ to blame someone, blame Benny.” He wiped his mouth with the napkin and threw it down on the tray.

The fight flooded out of me, and I came over to sit on the side of the bed. “We can’t let things go on like this.”

“What do you suggest? You didn’t like _my_ solution, you’ll recall. Feel free to put in some of your own.”

“What happened after I left?”

Zach drew in a breath to say something, but then let it out and sipped at his coffee instead.

“ _Tell_ me.”

“Ask me no questions, and I’ll tell you no fibs,” he murmured, and picked up the paper again. “They don’t seem to be making much headway on this Incubus, do they?” he said. “Neither the police nor the papers, despite all the fuss they’ve made over it. Seems like it’s all rumor and innuendo. I wonder how your Zoë’s making out.”

I wasn’t going to be put off, not completely. I tried a different tack. “He knows. About us. That we—that you—”

“Yes,” Zach said, and reached out a hand to tangle absently with mine on the bedspread. “He knows. The problem with Benny is, he sees love as a weakness, a vulnerability to pry into. Last night he cracked you open like a lobster claw and sucked down your fears.”

I glared at him. “He wasn’t the one sucking me down.”

He withdrew his hand from mine and took up his cup again. “For all the good it did,” he murmured, so soft I thought for a moment I’d misheard.

“You can go to hell,” I told him, and left him sitting there with his lukewarm coffee.

I didn’t expect to see Alice for some time after that incident in her room, but she turned up to dinner that night as blithe and lovely as ever, dressed in an icy shade of blue that made her eyes stand out emerald and sapphire.

She smiled brightly at me. “Good evening, Chris.”

I choked out a _good evening_ , and watched Cumberbatch take her in to dinner on his arm. It was as if nothing at all had happened. The only clue I had that I wasn’t losing my mind was the way Zach avoided looking at me, and the fact that Cumberbatch lost his temper almost right away.

“This is _inedible_ ,” he barked, after taking one mouthful of the soup. “Take it away at once.”

Miles, who was the only attendant that night, swept away the soup before the rest of us had even tasted it, and replaced it with the second course, sole in a cream sauce.This course didn’t please the Englishman any better. He took one sniff, declared the fish off, and told Zach to bring the car around to the front. “We’ll dine in town,” he said. “If we can find anywhere halfway decent. Alice, you should go to bed. You look quite unwell.”

If anything, she looked more sanguine than she should’ve, given the previous night, but she just bowed her head. “Yes, Benny.”

“I’m not feeling well myself,” I said hurriedly. The last thing I fancied was an awkward dinner for three in some trumped-up restaurant that Cumberbatch would criticize the whole evening.

The aristocrat looked as though he were about to demand I accompany them, when Zach spoke. “Well, it’s a shame, but it can’t be helped. Alice, Pegg will take care of you, won’t he?”

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Pegg always takes care of me.”

Cumberbatch’s face relaxed. “Yes,” he said. “Pegg is here.” And he left the room without another word. Zach followed him, and presently Alice and I heard the front door shut. Alice stood at once, and turned to leave the room.

I took my shot. “Alice, about last night—”

She walked on as though she hadn’t heard me, and never looked back. I considered my cooling sole, until Miles snatched it from under my fork. “If it’s off, sir, you shouldn’t eat it,” he said.

“There’s something smells fishy in this house, but it ain’t the food. Where’s your friend?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your sidekick. Jimmy Dean wannabe.”

“Colton is no longer part of the staff, sir.”

“What’s that you say?” I asked sharply.

“He was dismissed.”

“When?”

“I couldn’t say, sir. You’ll excuse me,” he finished over his shoulder as he disappeared through the servants’ door.

I wasn’t getting fed that night. So out of habit I wandered into the drawing room, where I found Alice had not gone up to bed as instructed, but was looking closely at the decanters lined up on the bar against the wall.

“I can never tell which is which,” she said vaguely. I strolled over.

“Easy way to tell. Whichever one _I_ have is the bourbon.” I put my words into action, and poured myself out a generous glass.

“I’ll have one, too,” Alice said.

I raised my eyebrows. “Are you sure you wouldn’t prefer a whiskey? Or even a brandy—”

“Bourbon,” she said, as close to curt as I ever heard her. I poured it out and added soda without asking her.

“Alice, about last night. I—”

“It was rather fun, wasn’t it?” she said.

“Fun?” I set the decanter down clumsily. “ _Fun_ , you say?”

“The club. And then—and then of course Benny did have rather a lot to drink, but we can’t blame him, can we? He really does have so much on his shoulders. He doesn’t mean any harm. Just a bit of fun.”

I could have cried for her. “Oh, Alice,” I said softly, and I made to take her hand. She grabbed up her glass of bourbon before I could.

She took her first mouthful and made a face just as Pegg came in. I half expected him to have words with me about it, but he laughed at her expression. “You lot are out early tonight.”

“It _is_ early,” Alice said. “We didn’t even get past the fish.”

“Still fancy some supper, milady? Miles is in the kitchen. I could ask him to look out something from the pantry.”

She took another swallow of her drink and shuddered. “Perhaps something light. Hot buttered toast. Chris?”

“Yes,” I said quickly. “I’d like that.”

So Alice, Pegg and I had a quiet supper and then sat around in the drawing room trying to occupy ourselves. I could have gone up to my bedroom, but I didn’t like leaving Alice as she was. She was too quiet, too thoughtful. The silence added frost to the chill of the evening air, and by and by, Pegg turned on the gas fireplace.

The only disturbance was the telephone ringing in the hallway at ten o’clock, and Miles came in to announce to the room that, “His Lordship and Mr. Quinto will be returning late, and rang to enquire about Lady Alice. I informed Mr. Quinto that—”

“Yes, yes,” Alice said, not even bothering to look up from her magazine. “I’m quite sure you did whatever you should have done. Thank you, Miles. You may run along home now.”

He withdrew, looking stung.

There was no radio and no television to distract us. The door to the screening room was locked, as always, and besides, I doubted Alice was in any mood for a film. She leafed through the latest _Vogue_ , but methodically, as though she didn’t see the pages as they turned, and Pegg was playing Solitaire. I tried to make headway in the book I’d picked up to read, but it was dull stuff.

“I’ve an awful yen for cards,” Pegg said mournfully, just after the clock struck half ten. “Can’t we play three-hand bridge?”

“I’ll tell you what,” I said, slamming my book shut with relief. “Why don’t we try poker?”

“Oh, yes!” Alice cried, and tossed aside her magazine. “Yes, do let’s. I’ve always wanted to play. It seems so wicked, all that fakery. Benny never liked the idea of it.”

That settled it. Pegg knew the basics, and Alice was adept at any card game. She picked it up quick enough for me to lose heavily to her in the fourth hand, and smiled at my chagrin.

“You know what they say,” she told me as we each surveyed our next hand. “Best to keep a straight face when you’re playing poker. Your cards are written all over yours.”

“Sheer luck,” I spluttered, and Pegg snorted.

“You might as well lay your hand down now,” he said. “It’s clear as day what you have there.”

I pulled my cards closer to my chest and wagged my finger at them. “Ah, I’m lulling you into a false sense of security. I’m in it for the long con. Just you wait and see.”

They both stared at me.

“He has a good hand,” Alice said.

“Aye, he does,” Pegg agreed, and they both folded.

“Shows what you know. I was bluffing.” I gathered up all the cards to shuffle again without showing my hand. But they’d been right; I could have swept them both if I’d grinned a little less brightly.

“Zach would be excellent at this game,” Alice said suddenly. “Don’t you think? He’s got that marvelous way of tucking his emotions back inside him, like a secret drawer in a writing desk.” She rose to refill our glasses while I dealt the next hand. “Don’t you think so, Chris?” she asked, as she topped up my bourbon.

“I can’t say I’ve noticed.” I bent my cards up to look at them, but they might as well have been blank. I forgot them as soon as I put them flat again. “What do you mean, exactly?”

“Well, I never know what he’s thinking. He looks at me and smiles, and he looks at you and smiles, and he looks at Benny and smiles. And it’s all the same smile.”

“A cat may look at a king,” Pegg observed.

I glanced at my cards again. It was a poor hand. “He cares for you very much,” I told Alice. “And for Benny,” I added, perhaps a shade too hurriedly.

She did not reply, but put in her bet.

Pegg won the round, and I was starting to think I should bow out gracefully before I lost any more. But my bourbon was full again, and Alice was looked so lovely that night in her cloud of pale blue silk, and winking diamonds at her throat and wrist. Her sea-colored eyes seemed fixed to my face every time I looked up.

“How does he kiss?” she asked.

“Beg pardon?”

“I’ve always found that a kiss is the most honest thing about a person, and if they can’t kiss with abandon, they’re probably a liar. So how does Zach kiss?”

My ears started to burn. I had no idea how much Pegg knew about what had gone on last night, or if he knew what Alice was getting at. He stared at his cards and then frowned at the cash in the pot.

“I’m not rightly sure how to answer that,” I said awkwardly.

“Aren’t you?”

If she was going to play the game, no reason I couldn’t play too. “You can’t go on talking about kissing like that. You’ll give a man impure thoughts.”

“Oi,” Pegg said, sitting up straight and glaring at me. “Watch it.”

But Alice laughed. “He’s only flirting, Pegg. Settle; there’s a good chap.” She put a cigarette in her ivory holder and leaned forward expectantly until I lit it for her. Pegg put in his bet to the pool.  It was my turn next, but I was mesmerized by Alice.

She said: “But it’s hard to keep a straight face. What do they call it; a tell? Most people have a tell, don’t they? A tic or a habit that gives away their true feelings unconsciously. That’s what I’ve heard.”

“My smirking must be mine,” I said ruefully. “What’s Pegg’s?”

“He blinks when he’s excited.”

We both looked at Pegg, who was, indeed, blinking rapidly.

“I fold,” I said immediately. I trusted Alice’s judgment more than my own.

“Devil take you,” Pegg grumbled.

“What’s yours?” I asked Alice.

She let a curl of smoke drift from her parted lips. “I tug at my hair.”

“You most certainly do not,” I scoffed.

“Well, a lady must have some secrets,” she said, and I liked the glint in her eye. She added, “I know what Zach’s is. He smokes. I saw him go through half a packet of Gauloises one night when Benny kept asking him why he’d been to Chateau Marmont so often that week. Zach said he liked the atmosphere.”

I happened to be taking a sip of bourbon, and ended up with a bigger mouthful than I’d intended. I had to swallow hard.

She asked, “How are you at blackjack, Chris?”

“I’ve never tried it.”

“We’ll try it next winter. I think you’ll like it. We can make it our game. Zach prefers roulette, but the odds are so poor.  Though I believe that might be why he likes it.”

“Next winter?”

“In Monte Carlo. We winter in the Riviera. We met Miles last time we were there, didn’t we Pegg?”

“Believe so, milady.”

“Miles has been rather slippery lately. Sneaking around at all hours.”

“Needs a good dressing down,” Pegg said robustly. “Don’t tell me he’s disturbing you, milady? I’ll box his ears for him.”

“No, he’s never in the east wing. But I’ve seen quite late, coming from your wing, Chris. Carrying Zach’s shirts.”

Didn’t seem to me that Miles would be creeping around in the middle of the night due to Zach’s urgent laundry needs. I thought darkly of Colton, dismissed from service after I’d caught him on his knees for Zach.

Something occurred to me. “I thought Benedict hired Miles here in Los Angeles. Said he came from some agency.” They both studied their cards. “Well, thanks for the offer, but I could never pay my way out to the Riviera.”

Alice looked up at that, surprised. “Oh, but that’s not a consideration at all. Not anymore. You need to get used to having whatever money can buy. Whatever you want in the whole wide world, Chris. Or whatever _he_ wants, anyway. But you’ll soon find they’re the same thing, your wants and his. Perhaps you’ve found that already.”

I looked at her, disconcerted. She gazed back, closing her eyes a little against the wisps of smoke from her cigarette. Pegg shuffled the cards and hummed happily to himself. It sounded like a waltz.

“I did try to warn you off that night,” Alice said gently. “That first night you set eyes on the whole abnormal lot of us. Now here you are, at His Majesty’s pleasure.” My mouth trembled, but I had no response. She said, “I’m tired,” and stabbed out her cigarette. “I’ll leave you to it. Good evening, gentlemen.”

With that, she swept out of the room.

“’Nother round?” Pegg asked hopefully, and broke me out of my reverie.

I shook my head. “I’m cleaned out tonight. Let my wallet recover some.”

“Suit yourself.” He started to lay out another Solitaire game, and I went over to the Victrola, where I started up Ella Fitzgerald singing Cole Porter. I felt too out of sorts to go to bed. Alice’s talk had thrown me, reminded me just how trapped I really was.

“You think she’s right about Zach?” I blurted out, and Pegg looked up.

“What about him?”

“That he smokes when he’s…”

“Telling porky pies?” He shrugged. “Dunno, mate. He’s mixed up in so much I doubt he knows the truth himself.”

“What’s that mean? What’s he mixed up in?”

Pegg played his cards out for a few moments, and then said, “I don’t want to tell tales out of school. Not my place.”

“But?”

He put his cards down and gave me a sympathetic look. “You’re not the first. You’re just the latest.”

“It’s not Zach leaning on me,” I protested. “I’m here because of that goddamned limey.” I remembered too late Pegg’s nationality. “Sorry. No offense.”

He waved a hand as though brushing my words from the air. “And no doubt it seems that way, that his Lordship is pulling the strings. But whatever Quinto wants, Quinto gets. Haven’t you noticed that by now? Her Ladyship was right about that.”

 _You’ll soon find they’re the same thing, your wants and his_.

I’d thought she meant Cumberbatch.

I had to sit down. I felt dizzy; too many thoughts were smashing together in my head. Zach—was Pegg right about him? Was Alice? Zach, pulling the strings. Zach, the one with the real power. If they were right, then I’d been a fool, more of a fool than I even knew. Blinded by love, I thought sickly. Bad as any half-brained dame crying after a pretty cad.

“Hullo,” Pegg said, “you don’t look well. One over the eight?”

“I’m fine. Say, why don’t you tell me about yourself?” I asked, breathing through my nose and trying to quell the nausea.

“Nothing much to tell.”

“Well, how did you meet Alice? The Riviera, too?”

“I met himself before I met her Ladyship.”

It took me a moment to untangle his meaning. “Then where’d you meet Lord Cumberbatch?”

Pegg gave a deep sigh. “I was under his command in the war. Saved me from a nasty end, he did; threw himself right in front of the bullet for me during the Kasserine siege. Hold up—are you sure you’re alright?”

“No,” I said, trying to swallow down my gorge. “No, you’re right. I—I’ve had one too many. I’ll take myself off to bed.”

I locked my door that night and sat up in bed with a bottle of bourbon watching the doorknob. I stared and stared, expecting the handle to be tried, jiggled, waiting for a soft knock on the door, until I was overcome by exhaustion.

 

 


	13. Touch of Evil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shy bunny,” he said. “Scared of the fox, perhaps.” He smiled up at me, teeth sharp and too-bared, and he did seem vulpine in that moment. “I won’t bite, not unless you beg me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: threats and bullying; mention of murder and violence; anti-Catholic sentiments; non consensual voyeurism/exhibitionism.

I was pulled from dark dreams early in the afternoon by muted but insistent knocking. I made my bleary way out of the twisted, bourbon-sticky sheets and pulled on the same pants from the night before.  It took some effort to fumble the locked door open, but soon enough I was blinking sore eyes at Miles.

“What do you want?”

“The laundry service is here,” he said. He stared resolutely past my right ear.

“Don’t they usually come tomorrow?”

“Yes,” Miles agreed, and hung around like he had more to say.

I hazarded a guess. “Do you want mine?”

“Please.”

I dragged over my linen bag and we both watched it collapse at his feet. He made no move to pick it up.

“And…” He paused, a helpless look on his face. “Mr. Quinto and his Lordship are both out today.”

Quinto was out. At least I could avoid the man for today. A bloom of relief made me clutch my chest, but I turned it into a lazy scratch for Miles’ benefit. I’d play sick at dinner, have something sent up to my room, and that way I wouldn’t have to look Zach in the eye until I’d decided how to play things. Pegg’s revelation the night before had rocked me harder, somehow, than all the other lies Zach had told.

Miles hissed on in the half-whisper he used whenever he talked about Zach: “Mr. Quinto _always_ has laundry.”

“So you want me to get his bag for you, is that it?”

“If you would, sir,” he said, relieved. “House staff are not allowed to retrieve the laundry bags.”

My eyebrows skyrocketed, and I laughed. “Don’t tell me his Lordship takes care of his own dirty laundry.”

He shuffled his feet and wouldn’t look at me. He mumbled, “Mr. Quinto usually…”

Now _that_ seemed more likely; more in keeping with the way Cumberbatch sought to keep Zach in his place. Making him deal with dirty underwear would have the effect the Englishman enjoyed. “Gimme a minute,” I told the kid.  I needed to splash some cold water on my face.

His nerves rolled off his skin like radiation and made me hurry despite myself. I followed him to Zach’s room, where Miles knocked as a courtesy, waited as though really listening for a _Come!_ , and then looked at me.

“House staff are not permitted in Mr. Quinto’s room when he is not—”

“Alright, already,” I said, and opened the door for him.

I’d never been in Zach’s room without him. It seemed void, like his warm features gave life to the cold ecru wallpaper and expansive floor space. Not even the large bronze mirror over the dresser helped. Its reflection sapped colors and turned everything sepia. Quinto kept no ornaments, no photographs, no decorations, only a bottle of his scent on the dresser top and, incongruously, a rosary on his bedside table. If it hadn’t been for the luxurious bed and extravagant furniture I’d’ve been reminded of a monastic cell. Every space was empty, even of dust. If no house staff were allowed in alone, did he stand about and watch them dusting? Or did he clean it himself? No. I was sure he wouldn’t do it himself.

“There’s no bag here,” I said to Miles. “Maybe he doesn’t—”

“There is _always_ a bag,” Miles insisted. He was hovering around the doorway like he meant to make a break for it if Zach suddenly strode up. I felt as jumpy as Miles did, truth be told.

I ducked my head into the adjoining bathroom. There was nothing there other than the shower cubicle, a sparkling porcelain toilet and matching sink with a comb tucked behind one of the faucets. But there was a door in the other wall, which I opened. Beyond it lay another room, dark and cool. I could find no switch for a light, but there was, just as Miles maintained, a large cotton drawstring bag slumped against the wall right next to the door. I blinked against the blackness of the room. I didn’t have time to wait for my eyes to adjust, so I lifted the bag to take it into the bathroom.

As soon as I hoisted it I knew something wasn’t right. It was too heavy, for one thing, and something hard banged against my shin. Under the dull glow of the bathroom light, I tugged at the tight knot of the drawstring.

“Is it there?” Miles whispered from the bedroom.

“Just a minute,” I muttered back, and with a final effort, untied the bag. The first thing I saw was Zach’s pale, pinstriped shirt from the day before, and the blue one Cumberbatch had been wearing.

Under them, though, lay a film reel canister. _Several_ canisters, none of them marked on the outside. Thrown in amongst them, plump with their contents, were plain yellow envelopes. I recognized them at once; these were the same as the envelopes Zach had left on my desk each week at the Chateau, stuffed with cash.

Each of the envelopes had something scribbled on it, but in the current circumstances I didn’t want to squint at them until I could make the writing out. I’d need better light to decipher the scrawl. For one fleeting moment I thought about taking the bag back to my room and searching it thoroughly. But there’d be a price to pay for that, and the notion that Miles might end up paying it instead of me didn’t sit right. So instead, I pulled an envelope from the bag and shoved it into my back pocket just as Miles appeared in the doorway.

He went pale when he saw I’d untied the bag, and starting braying. “House staff are _not_ allowed—under _any_ circumstances—”

“Then you can quit your quaking, since I’m not house staff,” I growled at him. I knotted it back up as tight as I could and took another glance at him. “Am I?”

He pursed his lips in a way that made me want to split them.

“You’ve got your goddamn bag,” I said. “You should be happy about that.”

“I don’t think…” He hesitated, and I could see his thought process. He was keener to leave it where I’d found it.

“Mr. Quinto will be furious if his clothes aren’t clean and ready for him when he expects them. Won’t he?” I asked, and that did the trick. Miles looked a shade away from frightened at my suggestion, and reached out to grab the bag. “On the other hand,” I said, whisking it behind me, “perhaps _I_ should be the one to hand it over. Then it’s all above-board, see? He won’t be able to accuse you of anything you shouldn’t have done.”

“I _haven’t_ —”

“I’m the only one who can confirm that story,” I said bluntly. I learned that day I’d make an awful society blackmailer. No subtlety at all. It worked okay on Miles, though.

He blanched. “Follow me,” he said stiffly, and we made our way through endless corridors to the back of the house, to the staff entrance.  Outside, a man was leaning against a beat-up car, his hat pulled down low over his face. He was reading a copy of the _Examiner_. They’d found a new photograph of Rachel Nichols bedecked in a string of pearls, and slapped her on the front page again. _GARROTED_ , read the single word headline. She smiled at me, full of beauty and hope and youth, until the man folded up the newspaper and pushed back his hat.

“About bloody time,” he said, and then he recognized me.

In other instances, Karl’s shock and dismay might have been funny. I did grin at him, but there was no humor to it. “Hullo, there,” I said. “Fancy you running a linen service on top of all your other undertakings.”

Karl worked his mouth like a fish gasping for air on dry land.

Miles, looking between us so fast I thought his neck would snap, started gabbling. “Mr. Quinto was not at home, and so—”

“It’s alright, Miles. Karl and I are old friends. Aren’t we Karl?”

Karl seemed to come around then. He cleared his throat, and folded up his paper. “I just came around to see how you are, mate,” he said. “Clear the air. Offer an olive branch. There’s—there’s a new job come up, see—”

“Oh,” I said. “So you’re _not_ here to run the laundry service?”

He tried a laugh, but it came out strangled. “Don’t know what you mean, mate.” He wrung the rolled-up newspaper in his hands like the neck of a chicken.

“How’d you know I was here, anyway?” I asked, smiling. I swung the bag a little with a turn of my wrist.

“Word gets around.”

“That’s poor plotting, Karl, even for you. Golly, this bag’s heavy.” I let it go, and it crashed to the ground, the metal canisters jolting each other. Miles and Karl couldn’t take their eyes off it. “Guess I’ll just leave it here for collection. You want to come in, Karl? I’ll order some afternoon tea in the parlor. Seems you didn’t know to come to the front door instead of driving all the way around to the servants’ entrance.”

“Can’t stay, mate,” he rasped.

“Of course you can.” I wasn’t letting him off the hook so easily. “Come and tell me all about this new job. I could use a distraction from the life of Riley I’m living these days.”

He was still screwing up the newspaper in his hands. All of a sudden it seemed strange to me that he’d do it the way he was doing it. Not rolling but twisting, like he wanted to destroy it.

“Gee, I left the details at the office,” he tried again. “I’ll have to telephone them through later after all.”

“Sure, sure,” I said, nodding at him. “Well, if you’re done with that paper, I’ll take a look. Haven’t seen the news today.” I snatched it from him before he could protest, and waved goodbye with it as I slipped back into the house. “Next time, Karl! And be sure to phone through the details.”

I went straight up to my room and peered out. By that time, Miles had hoisted the bag into Karl’s open trunk, and Karl slammed it shut. He tipped back his hat again and shook his finger in Miles’ face, then towards the house. I didn’t have to hear them to know what the conversation was about, and if I wasn’t bursting at the seams with curiosity, I might have felt sorry for Miles.

Once Karl got back in the car and drove off the show was over, so I hightailed it back to Zach’s room and barged right in. I wanted to re-examine the hidden room.

“Good Lord,” Zach said, astonished at my abrupt entrance. He was poised with his jacket in hand, hanging it in the wardrobe. “Is anything the matter?”

Just as Karl had gaped at me, so my mouth hung open as I tried to think of an excuse. Zach must have come home while I’d been having my confrontation with Karl out the back. “No,” I said at last. “Just wanted to…”

“Wanted to what?”

I did the only thing I could think of, half dressed as I was, and started to unbutton my pants. Zach said, “Oh,” and turned his back on me, arranging his jacket on the hanger and pushing aside clothes in the wardrobe to make room for it. “After the last few days, I assumed your affections had begun to wander.”

My fingers faltered on my zipper, but I played dumb. “I don’t get your meaning.”

“Don’t you, lover?” he asked coolly. He closed the wardrobe door and leant up against it, hands behind his back. “Why, I meant that you seemed rather more _alert_ than usual with Alice involved.”

I knocked off the coy act.  “You were the one who wanted me to do as I was told,” I pointed out. “ _She_ kissed _me_ ; was I supposed to shove her away? And it was _your_ mouth I was in, after all. Not hers.” It was crude and disrespectful to Alice, and I felt ashamed of myself as I said it, and as I added, “You know I’m cuckoo for you, Zach.” It had the desired effect. His frown gave way to a bashful look down at his feet. I pressed my advantage. “Crazy. Nutso. Why else would I bust in here like I did?”

“And you simply can’t wait?”

My tongue felt thick when I swallowed. “I’ve been waiting all _day_ ,” I said, hoping that it would sound like a whine rather than fear.

He crossed the room to me, and took my face in his hands to kiss. “Alright, angel. Since you’ve been waiting all _day_.”

I simpered as best I could. He started to help me undress, but I pulled away, remembering the envelope in my back pocket.

“Quicker if I do it,” I said. “Why don’t you undress yourself?”

His smile didn’t drop, but it felt to me like he’d seen through me somehow. “I think I’ll stayed dressed. Why won’t you let me help you? I’d like to.” His fingers approached my waistband, and again I took a step backwards.

“You’ll get messed if you keep your clothes on.”

“Laundry is due for pick up tomorrow,” he said. “I may as well get my money’s worth.”

I had to make my decision, so I did. “Actually,” I told him, looking down at my hands as I tugged at my zipper, “Miles took out the laundry earlier.”

Zach stiffened, and then strode over to the bathroom. After he disappeared inside, I took the opportunity to remove my pants and hang them on a chair so the back pocket, with its envelope peeking out, was covered.

He came out of the bathroom slowly, and leaned against the doorframe, looking at me. “Yes, I forgot. Benny asked for an early run this week. Still, Miles should have known better than to come in to my quarters without permission.”

I turned, and put my hands on my hips. “He had permission. He asked me to accompany him, and I did. So there’s been no snooping.”

“I see,” he said, and somehow I managed to keep his stare. “I can’t abide snooping,” he said after a pause. “It never ends well.”

“Forget about Miles and the snooping he didn’t do,” I said with a sigh. “Come to bed.” I made it convincing, and I could see Zach’s uncertainty.

“I need a moment,” he said, and then added, “Why don’t you sit on the bed and see if the rabbit will come out of his burrow today?”

I resented him for the dig, but I did as he asked, and sat on the bed to take myself in hand. I listened like blazes, though, and I could have sworn I heard him opening the second door in that bathroom. He was gone only a few minutes, and when he came back I’d made slight headway. My mind was completely preoccupied with the canisters and the envelope, the laundry service and Karl’s guest appearance, the hidden room that must— _must_ , I realized now—lie between Zach’s room and Cumberbatch’s boudoir. Was it accessible from Cumberbatch’s quarters?

“I can see he needs coaxing,” Zach said when he reappeared. He had taken off his pants and underwear, but his shirttails hung around his prick.

“Huh?” I said.

He removed my hand from my cock and knelt between my legs.

“Shy bunny,” he said. “Scared of the fox, perhaps.” He smiled up at me, teeth sharp and too-bared, and he did seem vulpine in that moment. “I won’t bite, not unless you beg me.”

He sucked me a little harder than I liked, used more teeth than seemed safe, and only let up if I hissed. I wondered then if he did it on purpose, to make sure I stayed limp despite his ministrations. He might insist he liked me that way, but it seemed to me his delight in it was diabolical. Kept him feeling in control, like he had something over me.

I pushed him away. “It might come up if you stop gnawing at it,” I snapped.

He laughed, his eyes sparkling, and leapt up. He loosened his tie and then wound it around my eyes before half-pulling, half-shoving me to the end of the bed. “You’ll spring up once you’re skewered,” he said, pushing me so I bent at the waist, hands on the bed. “You usually do.” I heard him oil himself, and then he started to stretch me with his fingers. “I suppose you don’t want much of this,” he said. “Being so desperate for it.”

“Get on with it,” I said, my teeth clenched.

He laughed. “Why, you _are_ impatient today, bunny,” he said, and shoved into me.

The devil of it was, he was right about the skewering. Feeling his cock pierce me made me come up soon enough. Whatever else the man was, he was talented. I shifted my weight to one arm so I could use the other hand to pull myself off, but he grabbed at my wrist.

“No.”

We wrestled for a moment, until he pushed me forward and I sprawled on the bed. He hustled me over so I was lying on my back, and he bent close enough to me that I could feel his breath flurry across my cheek.

“What—” I started.

“I said, _no_.”

He flowed back inside me like he’d planned the whole thing, and pushed my legs up, arms hooked under my knees, so I couldn’t push away from him, and so he was deeper inside me, pressed up so hard I could feel his shirttails rubbing between us.  He seized my wrists. I might as well have been hogtied.

“I’m hard,” I gritted out.

“Yes.”

“Will you bring me off?”

He leaned down over me, forcing further into me until I felt like there was no more room inside me at all. I was stuffed to the brim with him, packed tight, and it made me sick as much as it excited me.

He said: “If you’re a good bunny, I might.”

I made myself agreeable, and arched up to meet him. He let my wrists go soon enough, and I clutched at the bed covers, because the thought of touching him seemed like surrender. He was stabbing into me, raking over my most sensitive point with each thrust. I hadn’t forgotten, though, why I was there. As long as I kept his attention, I would succeed. That was secondary to my pleasure. But it was hard to remember that in the midst of it. Suddenly my release seemed important. Essential. I reached out to find his face, touch it, slip my fingers into his mouth. He trapped them there with his teeth.

“Please,” I said, and he bit harder on my finger. “Please, please. Please.”

He dropped my legs and pulled my hand from his mouth. “Hold your legs up for me,” he panted, and I obeyed, pulling them wide, the way he liked best.

A hand wrapped around my throat, and I gave a stifled moan. His other hand wrapped just as firmly around my shaft, and he took me like that, choking me with as much vigor as he jerked and fucked me. I was a dancing puppet underneath him; I was dying. I let go my legs and scrabbled at his fingers on my neck, but they were immovable. I couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe, and there was a rushing noise in my ears. But my cock was straining as much as the rest of me, and I popped just before I blacked out.

I wasn’t out for long. I came to with him dabbing at my hole, cleaning me with one of those innumerable silk handkerchiefs.

“Too much,” I said hoarsely. “That was too much, Zach.” I coughed, retched, and he helped me sit up, pressed a glass of water into my hand. He pulled the tie off my eyes as I drank and coughed again.

He stayed kneeling between my legs, his arms wrapped around me and his head pressed into my chest. I couldn’t do anything but embrace him with one hand, and drink down my water with the other.

“I’m sorry about that,” he said at last, and gave me a light nip over my heart. He pulled back to look up into my face. “I was rather excited and I let myself get carried away. It won’t happen again.”

The golden glow of my orgasm settled into the same feeling of crawling gratitude I always had after such a rough go of it, and I hated myself. Had to remind myself the man was a phony, a liar, a snake. But: “It’s alright,” I croaked. “Just be more careful next time.” I rubbed my throat tenderly. From the corner of my eye I caught sight of the rosary. “Pray for me, why don’t you,” I said. It was supposed to be a joke, but it came out hollow with dread.

He leaned over, opened the drawer of the bedside table, and swept the rosary into it. “A relic of my Papist youth. I’m C of E now, of course.”

“Of course,” was all I could think to reply.

“Benny," he said, like it explained everything. I coughed again. "Go and shower,” he suggested. “I’ll send for hot tea with honey. It will help your throat.”

I loathed tea, because it reminded me of Cumberbatch. But it sounded good to me, the way Zach put it then. He insisted I use his _en suite_ , and I agreed readily enough because I had a purpose to it. I started to take up my clothes, but Zach stopped me. “Wear my robe,” he said, as beneficently as though he were offering me the Koh-i-Noor. “And pass me my cigarette case, would you?”

I brought him the case obediently, and his eyes followed me every step of the way. I turned back to gather up my dress pants again. “These’ll do,” I told him. “I’m always taking your robes. I’ll have a whole closet full of them at this rate.”

“But those clothes are soiled. And you’ll have to change for dinner, anyway.” When I turned to look at him, he gazed back meditatively, and then dropped his eyes to my pants.

“I prefer these,” I said. “It’s just to wear down the hall, anyways.”

He blew out a stream of smoke so long it almost reached me like a ghostly, accusatory finger. “It’s a very small matter. Why are you making it so mountainous?”

I tried again. “Your robe has his initials on it.”

“Then take one that doesn’t.”

I could see I’d have to drop it and hope for the best. I plucked out the plainest robe he had in his closet—soft white cotton, with a decorative sapphire silk binding—and went into the bathroom. Once I’d turned on the shower I tried the opposite door, twisting the knob as quietly as I could. It was no good: locked. I didn’t like to jiggle it too much in case Zach heard me, so I washed and pulled on the robe. When I came out, steaming tea had appeared as promised, along with a dishtowel containing several ice cubes. Zach insisted on holding them to my throat as I drank the tea, but once that was done I said I’d better get back to my room before Cumberbatch found us.

“He wouldn’t mind,” Zach said. “Not at all, not this sort of thing. He’d ask to watch again.”

“And I don’t mean to let him watch,” I growled. “Besides, I need to work.”

“Yes,” he said. “Work.”

“I’ll see you at dinner,” I pointed out, gathered up my pants, and left. As soon as I got back in my room I turned my pockets inside out, searching for the envelope.

It was gone, of course.

I swore a blue streak until I ran out of breath and collapsed on the chair in front of my typewriter. My eye fell on the scrunched-up paper Karl had been reading. I’d tossed it on my desk when I ran back up to make sure he took the laundry bag with him. As far as clues went, it was a poor substitute for the envelopes and the film canisters, but it was all I had. I set about smoothing the newspaper out until I could read it.

Cause of death had finally leaked: garroting, and with her own pearl necklace according to the _Examiner_. That explained the new photograph. I wondered if Zoë’d had a hand in tipping off the press. Just how friendly might she be with the Coroner’s office? I wouldn’t’ve put anything past her, not after watching her handle Alice and Zach.

The paper jived up the story with a multitude of adjectives. I felt a wave of professional bitterness. I could’ve done a better job half-drunk. Still, I searched through, looking for something that might have made Karl so nervy. The facts, reiterated in glowering, censorious terms, were simple: Rachel Nichols, twenty-two years old, low-rent jazz singer, found dead in an alley downtown and, as far as I could make out, intimate with a man in the preceding hours. Quite what angle the paper was taking with this, I couldn’t tell. The writer’d done his job so poorly I couldn’t see whether I was supposed to pity the girl or not. Or maybe that was the point; maybe they were hedging their bets and waiting to see what the outcome was before they declared her saint or sinner.

Low in the piece, I came across a sentence that made my ears go cold. I could tell the paragraph had only made it to publication because it was a slow day and they needed to fill up some inches.

_Miss Nichols’ agency, Urban Management, booked her a regular job at the Birdhouse as the house singer, where she was known for wearing all-white costumes during her performances._

The writer went on to speculate about whether her sartorial choices were a sign of purity or blasphemy, but my attention was already caught. Urban Management was my agency, too. I knew Karl dabbled in management of a variety of industries: acting, dancing, writing. Even an illustrator and an infamous solicitor were on his books. It made sense he’d have a singer too, to round out his collection.

Karl. Karl giving me the trumped-up interview with Cumberbatch; Karl turning up to collect the ‘laundry’; Karl acting as manager for Rachel Nichols and making dime off her murder by giving exclusives to the _Examiner_. This was a coincidence that couldn’t stretch quite as far as it was trying. The new picture, published ‘courtesy of Urban Management’, made Rachel look fragile, her neck thin and delicate under the heavy pearls as she tipped her head back to laugh. I felt an unexpected cramp of grief for the dead girl.

Did Zoë know, I wondered? Did she know who Karl was, had she spoken to him? In my mind’s eye I saw again Karl’s hands, big and powerful, convulsing around the newspaper.

Garroted, I reminded myself. Not strangled. I closed the newspaper. _GARROTED_ , the front page insisted.

I shivered. The room seemed chilly and much darker than when I’d entered. The day was slipping away again. I felt empty, enervated, like I would never be alert or free or happy again. I crawled onto my bed, just to rest my head for a moment, and closed my eyes.

 

***

 

When I woke it was dark. My watch told me it was coming up for three in the morning. I’d slept right through dinner and into the deep night. I rolled myself off the bed, my joints complaining, and washed my face. I had a dull headache throbbing at the base of my skull, and no amount of stretching out my neck would get rid of it. What I needed was my Kentucky remedy, but my bottle was near dry. I’d have to head downstairs to refill my comfort.

The household should have been safely in bed; even on our latest nights we were all tucked away and enjoying our nightmares by two. Yet the chandelier in the foyer was still burning, and when I entered the drawing room, I noticed the door to the screening room was ajar. I crept up to it, and gazed down those dark steps into the yawning black. For a moment I imagined something was staring back, and pulled away again. I didn’t need any more monsters peering into my soul, and even less did I want to run into anyone. I grabbed the decanter of bourbon from the side table and was about to head back to my room with it when I heard a metallic clunking float out from the screening room.

I set the bourbon on the bar again and crept slowly, soundlessly through the doorway and down the carpeted stairs. A bluish light flickered enough for me to see my way down, and when I peeped round the doorway at the bottom, I saw a silhouetted figure slumped on the love seat. His hair was in disarray, but I knew him at once: Lord Benedict Cumberbatch.

I needn’t’ve worried so much about keeping quiet. He was transfixed by the movie he was watching, and the clattering noise of the running reel helped muffle my footsteps as I slipped behind him to hide behind one of the pillars that stretched floor to ceiling. The room was small, windowless, and I could see dust teeming in the air where the beam from the projector stretched towards the screen.  From my vantage point I could see the Englishman almost in profile. The light flickered across his face and bleached color, turning him into a chiaroscuro tableau. When I was sure he hadn’t noticed me I turned my attention to the screen, and what I saw made my head spin.

Zach. Zach and Colton. Zach _fucking_ Colton. There was no other word for it. Zach rubbing his privates all over the boy’s face as though marking him with scent like an animal. Zach slapping at him ’til he turned over and got into position. Zach rutting into the rebounding body underneath him, his expression fierce and concentrated, like it wasn’t even a pleasure to him but just a means to victory.  His hand around the throat, choking the kid—it made my stomach turn to watch it. I turned away, unable to watch him finishing. I rested my forehead, clammy and hot, against the cool marble of the pillar, until the film ran out. Cumberbatch came around to reset the projector, and I made myself as small as I could. The way he careened about told me he was probably too far-gone to notice me anyway. It took him a few tries to situate the reel, and then he collapsed back on his sofa to watch it.

This one showed a couple going at it like dogs on the four-poster bed in Zach’s room. Zach was on top, of course; the other had his head down so I couldn’t see the face. There was no sound again, but I knew exactly what noises they were making, could hear it in my head: harsh breathing, grunting, some urging on. Yes, I knew exactly what they sounded like. Zach lifted his partner up to his knees with an arm hooked around his throat and yes—yes, it was—it was _me_.

Me, gagging for air in Zach’s chokehold and taking his brutal ravishing. He was more punishing now than he’d been in our early days. More punishing since I’d moved into the mansion.

Since someone had started filming it.

I shook my swimming head to clear it, but I stayed watching it unfold like I didn’t already know what was going to happen. This was the night before we’d gone to the Birdhouse, and the events were still clear in my mind. I’d come to him straight after we went up to bed. I’d been happy about it, despite his rough treatment, because my downstairs had decided to cooperate. As I stared now, I could see how thick and full my cock looked, leaping and bobbing as I jerked around like a buoy in a storm.

Cumberbatch sat forward in his seat, as mesmerized as I was by the show. In the film, I bucked as Zach finished in me. I tugged at my shirt collar, remembering how hard he’d throttled me that night. On screen my hands, which had been pulling and beating at his arm, went slack even as he kept up the chokehold, and although I was here, alive and breathing, I felt a rush of panic at the sight. But he let me go, and I fell forward on the bed, coughing, heaving in great lungfuls of air.

And now I could see what I hadn’t seen before: the way Zach’s face changed and softened as he beheld me, wheezing and groaning underneath him. He cleaned me up as usual with a handkerchief, but was quick about it, and then hoisted me up by the hips until I was kneeling on all fours again. I was still catching my breath, resting my face on my forearm, as he wriggled down behind me and put his mouth where his cock had been. It had been soothing and slow, the way he dined on me, and intimate above all things. The camera caught it on my face when I looked up: desperate, despairing love. I flushed in the present. Was I really so obvious?

When Zach turned me over, Cumberbatch stood up. I had to move further around the pillar to see what I already knew was coming, but my curiosity was afire now. Zach nosed around in my crotch before he sucked down my prick, and I arched on the bed underneath him. The way my mouth opened made me cringe; I’d been whining and pleading for my climax. My balls ached in concert with the image. It had been the first erection I’d been able to hold with him for days, and it felt like a fire pouring through me when I’d spilled in his mouth. It hadn’t taken long, and he was perfunctory about it—or so I’d thought. It felt mechanical, but I could see his face better now that my sight wasn’t blurred with the relief and thankfulness I’d felt at the time.

It was a dead ringer for the look I’d had: love.

I was lucky I was too surprised to make a sound. Cumberbatch was getting closer and closer to the screen, his whiskey still clutched in one hand but sloshing around in the glass as he trembled. I could smell the whiskey from where I was, sharp and pungent. From my vantage point the images played over his back, distorted.

Cumberbatch’s nose was just about pressed into the screen where I relaxed on the bed, my hands reaching out for Zach. And Zach—I remembered this now—he rubbed his face into the palm of my hand. My skin prickled at the memory. He smiled, his eyes half-closed, and nuzzled at me like a cat.

Cumberbatch ducked away, clutching at his head as though struck by one of his cousin’s sudden migraine. He took a few steps to the left, so the moving pictures slid off him and back on to the screen: Zach crawling over me and leaning in to kiss me. It was tender in a way I hadn’t appreciated at the time. His hand brushed my hair away from my face as though he wanted me laid bare to his eyes. He cupped my cheek and kissed me again with something approaching reverence.

The sound of cracking glass made me jump out of my skin. Cumberbatch had thrown his tumbler straight at the fireplace, and splintered shards gleamed red on the carpet, reflecting the firelight.

I stayed still and quiet behind the pillar. The film played on although Cumberbatch refused to watch. I saw Zach kissing me until I tiredly pushed him away and got off the bed. I pulled on my dressing gown, and the way I stood seemed to deliberately position the elaborate _BC_ insignia on the breast pocket towards the camera. From the angle the camera must have been situated behind the enormous bronze-framed mirror on the wall above the dresser.  It had always seemed a strange, overpowering addition to the room. Now I understood its true purpose.

In the film, I looked straight at the mirror—at the camera—and seemed troubled. Zach wrapped his arms around me from behind and kissed the side of my neck, the side with the bruises and marks on it. He snuggled into me, whispering to me and sucking at my earlobe and jollying away my frown until at last I smiled, and said something back to him. I remembered exactly what it was, what he’d been questioning me about, and my response.

_Yeah. Yeah, I love you._

I moved out of the camera’s view, and I knew I’d left the room. Like a watchful ghost, now I could observe Zach pulling on a pair of pajama pants. He turned suddenly as another figure dashed into frame from the opposite side of the room. Lord Cumberbatch, shoving and shouting at him. Zach shrugged and sat on the edge of the bed, smoothing down the rumpled covers. He looked up at Cumberbatch with an insolent smile.

He said something, lifting his eyebrow in an invitation, and the Englishman backhanded him. Zach raised a hand to his mouth, testing for blood, and made some comment—I knew what it would be, the tone if not the phrasing. Something designed to be cutting and witty and withering. He got himself slapped again, three times back and forth, but there was no force behind it. It was a show of power, not of strength. As soon as it was done, Cumberbatch left the room.

Quinto strolled to the mirror. He patted at his mouth and felt along his cheekbone. I knew well enough that Cumberbatch’s blows had left no noticeable marks. Satisfied, Zach set to fixing his hair in the mirror, watching his reflection. After that, he stooped to busy himself with something on the dresser. When his face returned into view he stared directly into the camera. He held up a yellow envelope, on which I recognized, scrawled in his erratic handwriting, my name and that day’s date. In his other hand, he held up a soiled handkerchief and, in front of the camera, stuffed it into and sealed the envelope. He held it straight again towards the camera as though proving there were no tricks, and I felt like his obsidian gaze was burning two holes into the projector screen.

With a final frantic rattle the film ran out. By the fireplace, Cumberbatch collapsed to the floor.

 


	14. Dark Passage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The booze gave me strange hallucinations sometimes. If I lost my head I might bolt, and if I bolted I might run headlong into a wall and daze myself or break my nose, leave a bloody trail for others to find. 
> 
> I _had_ to keep my cool.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: drug use (non-con and dub-con), spitting.

Lord Cumberbatch was still breathing, though it was causing him some difficulty. I stood over him, watching him spasm every few breaths and listening to the clatter of his lungs. I found myself screwing my fingers into a velvet pillow with no recollection of how it got from the love seat into my hands. I plumped it up again as best I could and set it back down before turning my back on him so I could think. It was stuffy and overheated in the room, though the fire was not lit, and though I wore only pajama pants and a robe I’d pulled on from my closet. _BC_ , announced the pocket square over my heart, and I wanted to burn it from my breast.

My first course of action was clear enough. I pulled the reel from the projector, dropped it into the fireplace, and lit it with one of the long matches kept for kindling. It flamed up immediately and the film stank as it burned, more than I expected. I had to drag Cumberbatch clear of the billowing smoke. Somehow it seemed to empty into the room as much as it went up the chimney. After that it seemed a lousy thing to do to leave the Englishman on the floor surrounded by the shards of his own glass, so I heaved him back up onto the sofa.

My bourbon forgotten, I made my way back up to the foyer. The house seemed even more silent than usual and the back of my neck tingled as I trekked up the grand staircase. Surely someone was watching me? I paused halfway up and looked around. I saw the gleam of the chandelier in moonlight, and the shining parquet floor, but there was no movement.

As I reached the landing I could’ve sworn I saw the door leading to Alice’s wing closing the last inch of the way. I blinked and looked again, but I couldn’t be sure. There was no scent this time, either, hovering around like a ghost outside her wing. I looked over my shoulder several times as I walked down the opposite hallway, but I saw no more movement.

I paused outside Zach’s room, but I didn’t mean to wake him. I tried gently twisting the knob, but it was locked. I considered the wall space between his door and Cumberbatch’s, much further along the corridor. It seemed to me there was an abundance of wall on the outside that was not matched for space on the inside. I paced out the edge of Zach’s room from memory, and then the smaller space of the bathroom. There was still a ways to go to the Englishman’s door.

Yes. The room verging off the other side of Zach’s bathroom would have the space needed here; it could be several feet wide, in fact. Cumberbatch’s quarters were expansive, but did not, as far as I could remember, extend on this side. They expanded out to the corner of the house so that he had views of the estate to the north and west. But on this side, towards Zach’s rooms, there was enough space for a sizable hidden room, not accessible from the corridor, but from Zach’s room. And probably accessible from inside Cumberbatch’s quarters as well. It would explain how he entered the room from the opposite side to my exit on the film.

I’d’ve bet my eyeteeth it would never cross the Marquess of Holford’s mind to lock his bedroom door. I was right. I tried his doorknob, and it turned free and open.

I pushed the door ajar, my heart booming in my ears. Should I chance it?

Well, I hadn’t come that far to give up, and I wasn’t going to risk losing any more opportunities like I had with the yellow envelope. I slipped inside and glanced around. Empty. I went straight to the wall I figured must be directly adjacent to the hidden room. It was covered with built-in bookshelves, floor to ceiling, stacked with faded old books on Greek art. For a moment I had visions of a secret entrance that could be sprung by pulling down on a book. Short of tugging on every book along that wall—and there were hundreds of them—there didn’t seem any way to test my theory. Besides, I reasoned, there would be tracks worn in the carpet, or some other sign.

No. If there was an entrance from this side, it was not from the bedroom. The walk-through wardrobe and the bathroom were still beyond, and who knew what else.

I steeled my nerves and opened the door to the walk-through. I could hear no sounds, but the fact that I had no lock on Zach’s whereabouts was worrying. Still, if I came nose to nose with him, I’d have the upper hand. I was the one being filmed, after all. He’d have a hard time explaining that away.

The wardrobe was filled with beautifully tailored suits, silk neckties, and the reek of leather from Florentine belts and shoes. There was something else, too. Lemon and vetiver and dank moss. The same smell I’d caught haunting the landing before Alice’s wing. I caught sight through the shadows of a collection of ascots and scarves, and felt a wave of nausea.  I remembered the polka-dotted cravat Cumberbatch had stuffed into my mouth to keep me quiet at the Chateau. It had been scented with the same cologne.

I paused to open a few of the drawers. There were tie pins, money clips that cost more than the cash they could hold, more cufflinks than I’d ever had shirts in my life. Tucked to the back of one velvet-lined drawer, my fingers landed on a dull and grimy five-pointed star. It was caked with grease and fluff on the front, a sharp contrast to the rest of Cumberbatch’s well-maintained trinkets. On the reverse there’d been a name engraved in the middle, but the words were obliterated with deep, vicious gouges.

It made me uneasy, like it was some holy relic my mundane hands should never have held. I dropped it into my breast pocket and walked on to the bathroom. The sight of the huge copper tub filled me with revenant disgust from the last time I’d seen it: bathing Zach for Cumberbatch’s pleasure. Had they filmed that, too? Probably. Probably they had.

At first glance, there seemed to be no exits from the bathroom, but then I realized the Japanese screen in the back corner hid what I was looking for: a second door. I tried the knob, just as gingerly as I had from Zach’s side, and again it was locked. I clenched my fists and thought about punching a hole through the screen. But there _must_ be a key, after all.

A key.

I rushed to the silver dish where I’d been told to place my cufflinks, and the key lay there still, unassuming and innocent. My luck was coming back! The key fit perfectly into the lock on the door and turned. The lock was well-oiled and well-maintained, and gave only the smallest click of sound. The door swung open on oiled hinges.

The room inside was not a room, but a thin corridor. I could see it leading immediately to the right, down the wall past the walk-through robe on Cumberbatch’s side. Further than a few feet I could not see; it was pitch-black, and there was no light switch. My hand touched a wooden rail as I groped on the wall, and I realized it was intended to lead travelers through the blackness.

My heart quailed at the thought of finding a monster at the center of the labyrinth. “You already found the monsters,” I told myself aloud, and it made me feel better to hear a voice, even if it was just my own. “They roam free ’round here.”

I gripped the railing with my right hand and entered the darkness. I left the door wide open to give a little light, but I was swallowed up by blackness soon enough, and held my left arm out in front. My fingertips tingled, but touched nothing. I went slowly to give my eyes a chance to adjust, and to avoid bumbling headlong into an unseen trap. About halfway down, I started to imagine someone waiting for me, silent and lurking; that I would find them by touch alone, my fingers pressing in unexpectedly to a shoulder or a soft belly or a face.

The booze gave me strange hallucinations sometimes. If I lost my head I might bolt, and if I bolted I might run headlong into a wall and daze myself or break my nose, leave a bloody trail for others to find.

I _had_ to keep my cool. I shoved my left hand back in my pocket and closed it around the metal key, clutched at it until the jagged teeth bit into my palm and shot pain up my arm. It helped. My right hand was slippery with sweat on the rail, but I stretched out my cramped fingers and re-gripped. _One foot in front of the other, just like it’s been all your life_ , I told myself.

My eyes came good enough that I saw the wall in front of me before I collided with it. It demanded I turn left, then after several feet I turned right again, then left—it seemed to last forever. It could only have been a very small distance, though, winding around the inconvenient bones of the house like a vein leading to its dark heart. I abruptly stepped into a larger space and found myself looking at Zach’s bedroom through a large window, six feet across and lit only by the dim light from Zach’s room. His rumpled, empty bed was the central feature, and I could see, if I got close to the window and looked down, his dresser underneath. I’d been right: I was looking through from the other side of the mirror.

Suddenly, Zach loomed into view before me, and I stumbled backwards in surprise. I crashed into something, and fell over amidst the sound of cracking glass and clanging metal. When I managed to pick myself up, the light was enough to show me I’d just destroyed a film camera. Something on it had pierced my shoulder and I could feel a warm seepage down my shirtsleeve.

At the window, Zach was staring straight towards me, startled and unmoving. I noticed small details in that moment: the way his shirt was open down to the last two buttons, as though he'd been undressing for bed, the untidy flop of his hair into his eyebrows. Then he turned towards his bathroom door, and I did what my instincts told me to do. I ran.

I thundered into the walls on each turn of the corridor, bashing my head and my face, spraining my wrist on one outstretched arm, and when I made it to the door, I slammed it shut and locked it with shaking fingers. I was dripping blood from the wound on my shoulder, but I ignored it for now and set off sprinting again, through the wardrobe, into the bedroom, and out the door—

Only to see Zach waiting for me, leaning against the wall like he had all the time in the world. His shirt was buttoned and tucked in. His eyes were like flint.

“Hello, rabbit. What _have_ you been up to?”

The nickname had never been more apt. I hared it back into the room, and meant to slam the door on him, but he was just as quick, and had mastery of himself where I had none. He shoved the door open and backed me into the bookshelves.

“Stay away from me!” I shouted wildly, and he stopped and held up his hands.

“You’re bleeding,” he pointed out.

“I know what you’ve been doing!”

“Of course you do. You’re a smart fellow; it was only a matter of time before you figured it out.”

The instant confession caught me off guard. “So you admit that you and he—”

“He, alone. Do you think I would ever do something like that if not under coercion? Where _is_ Benny, anyway? I don’t suppose you’d break into his room without feeling yourself safe enough.”

He stepped closer to me, and I shrank against the books, turning my head away like a small animal who knows its death has come. But he didn’t rip my throat out, not literally, not metaphorically. He unbuttoned my shirt instead, and eased it off my shoulders.

“You’ll have to force me,” I spat out. “I won’t just let you, not willingly.”

“Sweetheart, what _are_ you gabbling about?” He prodded at my wounded shoulder, and I hissed. “You need patching up, don’t you? You’ve been in the wars.”

“But you haven’t,” I said, and started giggling. Once I’d started, I couldn’t stop.

He stared at me like he wasn’t sure what to do with me, and then said, “Go and sit on the bed.”

God help me, I did as he told me. I sat and waited and giggled while he fetched a towel and a tin kit with some military insignia on the lid. Inside was a stash of medical supplies, bandages, iodine, scissors, a Swiss Army knife, and loose pills of all shapes and colors.

“Take this,” he said, and pressed one of those pills into my mouth, a blue oval. I tried to pull away, spit it out, but he kept one hand clamped over my mouth and the other grasped the back of my neck. “Swallow,” he said, and then stonily, “Don’t make me _make_ you.”

I swallowed. After a moment or two, he took his hands away. He watched me closely, and gave a satisfied nod when I took in a deep, shuddering breath, and blew it out again. I felt my hysteria subside as I let him wipe away the blood from my shoulder and tend to me, passive and pliable under his hands.

“There, now,” he said, when he’d wrapped my shoulder up. “We’ll have to keep an eye on that, but it wasn’t very deep. I believe the camera probably came off worse than you did from the sounds of it.”

I glared at him, my tranquility receding at the mention of the camera. “You’re very calm about it all.”

He shrugged. “I made my choices some time ago, dear heart. You wouldn’t believe me if I pretended to be shocked and embarrassed, would you?”

“No.”

“There we are, then. Yes, you were filmed without your permission.”

“And—and those _handkerchiefs_ —”

“Souvenirs, I’m afraid. To the highest bidder. I’m dreadfully sorry about it all, really I am. But it’s not as though you haven’t enjoyed it, is it?”

I gawped at him, then said, “One more word, Quinto, and I might just break your jaw.”

At that, he dropped the breezy act. “Alright,” he said. “Of course you’re sore about it. It was a lowdown thing to do, and I hated doing it. You think I want to share you with the world? Well, I don’t. I don’t like it any more than you do.”

“You’ll forgive me for thinking you’re as full of horseshit as ever, Quinto. You’re as stuffed full of lies as a pillow with feathers, and they float through the air just as easy. ”

He knelt down before me where I was seated on the bed and clasped my hands. “You must be patient with me. I’ve got by all my life on lies. I’ve had to. Nothing good has _ever_ come from my telling the truth, only pain. And I didn’t want to cause you pain.” I’ve never seen an angel, but the look on him then was as close as I think I’ll ever get. “I tried to keep you safe. I tried to keep you hidden away, right from the start—but it’s my fault, all of this. My fault he found us, and my fault he worked it so he could collect you. Do you at least believe I’m sorry about that?”

My heart’s not made of stone. I wavered. He saw it.

“And when Benny wanted to watch, didn’t I try to make you comfortable? I never strung it out, I always finished as soon as I could.”

It’s no secret I’m a fool, but what he was saying also made sense. He _had_ tried to hurry things along every time Cumberbatch wanted a show.  He _had_ blindfolded me so I could pretend we were alone.

He squeezed my hands. “You see? It’s true. I’m as much a prisoner as you are.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before? I asked you to stop lying. You said you would.” My naiveté grated in my own ears.

He opened my hands, palm up, and kissed them. “Because there wasn’t any point in both of us feeling humiliated. I wanted to save you from that, from feeling like you were putting on a show every time.”

He busied himself kissing my hands again, and I looked thoughtfully at the back of his head. “But that’s how you feel, is it?”

“My whole life is just for show,” he murmured, and then stood to pace the room. “It kills me to think you’re afraid of me, lover, but that’s what Benny has done to us.”

I stood as well, my shoulder aching. “Surely I can’t be the first,” I pointed out. “Not the first he’s brought here like this. Not the first to star in your stag films. Colton, I saw for myself in your room, and on film downstairs. And I’d bet Miles, too.”

He stopped pacing and clutched at his shirtfront in a strange kneading motion. “Colton? You saw?” he asked.

“I saw,” I said grimly. “I saw more than enough, though I couldn’t watch the whole thing. That poor kid, getting the screw of his life and then finding himself out on his ear. Yeah, that’s right,” I said at his expression. “Miles told me you laid him off.”

“You and Miles,” Quinto said, “seem downright chummy these days.”

“Leave Miles out of this,” I growled. “We’re talking about you. You and Colton, anyway.”

“And you, too, I think,” he said softly. “You’re quite cut up about it, bunny.”

“Of course I am!” I roared. I’d lost my cool completely, Quinto’s sedative sizzling away to nothing in my hot blood. “How do you think it felt to watch you with someone else like that? To know I’m just another—just another—”

He came to me swiftly and placed one hand on my waist, the other on my cheek. “You’re not just another. _No_ ,” he went on over the top of me, as I protested, “No, you’re not. Maybe you’re not the only one who's been filmed. But you _are_ the only one I’ve loved.”

The flint in his eyes had gone, and they were on fire again. I’d challenge anyone to resist being looked at like he looked at me then. “Love,” I breathed. “Is that what this is? You said you loved Benedict once, and how foolish it seemed when it had passed over.”

“Now I know better. Now I know that real love doesn’t pass on like a wildfire and leave only smoke and ashes behind it. Real love burns like the center of a star, endless and white-hot.” And he kissed me, just as white-hot as the star he was talking about. When he came up for air, he added: “I didn’t mean to fall in love with you, you know. But here I am, ablaze for you.”

Pretty words and kisses will always seep past my defenses, and he knew it. If I’d had my wits about me, I’d’ve pointed out that stars die just as surely as we do. But I didn’t have my wits about me. I’d been badly shaken up by the events of the night, and I was willing and ready to take the easy route. Let whatever he’d doped me with rise up again and drown my common sense. Let my mind flow like water past the sharp-edged rocks all around me, pushing thoughts of danger deep under so I could enjoy the taste of his tongue in my mouth.

“Where _is_ Benny?” he asked, after breaking off another kiss.

“Downstairs. Passed out on the sofa in the viewing room. He was watching…” I couldn’t say it, reproach rising again in my gut.

“He likes to review the films before he sends them off,” Zach said quietly.

“Sends them off?”

He paused, but then nodded, as though remembering his promise to be truthful. “I’m sorry to tell you, but there are...collectors. Like him. Connoisseurs, they call themselves. They enjoy the violence.”

It was maddening, the thought that movies of me taking that treatment were making the rounds. But one thing made me feel better. “He wasn’t best pleased with the latest film. He cracked it when you brought me off.”

Zach gave a smirk. “Oh, he hated that. Yes. Came in and slapped me around afterwards. He likes me to deny my partners. Makes him feel better about himself.”

“I’ll bet. Well, he threw his glass at the wall, and then he hit the deck himself. I guess the mickey must’ve hit him.”

The smile faded from Zach’s eyes, though it stayed on his lips. “The viewing room, you said?”

In my heart of hearts, I was hoping the Englishman had died quietly, choked on his own vomit, and I went along with Quinto to see if it had happened. But it was not to be. Cumberbatch was as I’d left him, snoring fit to shake the house, the light from the camera still flickering over his body. Zach regarded him, expressionless, and then thumbed up the closed eyelids to check Cumberbatch’s pupils.

“Getting the right dose is tricky, you know,” he said, looking up at me. “One can’t just dump any old powder into a drink and expect it to do the job.”

“I guess not,” I said. “I guess you have it down to a fine art these days.”

He narrowed his eyes at me. “Help me with him, will you?” he asked.

It was reminiscent of my first night in the mansion, hobbling up the staircase with the unconscious aristocrat between us. “Old times,” I muttered, and Zach grunted a reply. Cumberbatch was heavy, his head rolling indolently on his neck and his slippers scuffing along the carpet. He lost them both at different times, and I had to fetch them while Zach waited, and stuff them in his robe pockets, one each side.

We tossed him on his bed, face-up. “What are we going to do about this?” I puffed.

“Get him under the covers, I suppose,” Zach said.

“I mean about _all_ of this,” I said. “We can’t go on like this. I won’t perform for him anymore, Zach. I _won’t_. Surely you can’t mean to, either? We’ve gotta get away from this house.” _We_ , I’d said. _We, together_. I wondered if he’d noticed.

But Zach did not reply, focused as he was on rolling the Englishman around in a complicated plan to get him under the covers. “You’ve bled on the duvet here,” he said, standing back.

“I’m _ever_ so sorry, milord.”

“Oh, bunny,” he sighed. “I’m just wondering how to explain it when he wakes up.”

“I wish you wouldn’t call me that,” I snapped.

He reached out to draw me closer to him and murmured, “There are so _many_ things you don’t want me to call you, darling. Is your shoulder paining you?”

“Heaving that great lump all the way upstairs didn’t help it. And having you grope at it—”

“I’ll find you a painkiller.” He was as good as his word, scrabbling in the tin medical kit on the nightstand. “Here,” he said, holding out a small, pale-peach colored pill. “This should do the trick. Chew this down.”

It tasted like powdery oranges, and I had no idea what it was. It worked right enough, though. I felt a sense of wellbeing wash through me, and the pain trickled all away.

Zach was studying me. “Better?”

“Better.”

“Why don’t you come over here and lie down?” He petted the bed, the side Cumberbatch was not taking up.

I looked at the bed, at Cumberbatch, and at Zach. “Are you thinking—”

“Just come over here,” he purred. “Come here, sweetheart. Those particular pills can hit hard, make one woozy. You’re better off lying down for a moment.”

I couldn’t look away from his burning-ember eyes once they’d locked on me, so I did as he told me, and came to the bed. I let him lie me down next to the Englishman, and he stroked my hair off my forehead once I’d settled. I kept trying to look at Cumberbatch from the corner of my eye until Zach gave a light laugh.

“He won’t wake, you know. Why, we could do anything we liked and he’d sleep right through it.” He stretched out next to me as if to show me that movement on the bed wouldn’t stir the sleeper next to us. “Anything,” he repeated. “Anything at all.” His hand slid over my chest.

“Zach,” I whispered, and I wish I could say I meant to ask him to stop. But whatever it was I’d taken, it made the slightest touch feel like an intimate caress.

“Really, when you think about it, it’s no more than he’s done to _you_ unawares,” he pointed out, and kissed me. It was like a starburst of bliss coursing through every nerve in my body.

“What did you give me?” I moaned. He drew his hand between my legs to cup me, and I was aching hard for him at once.

“Just something for your pain, my love. Here, take off your pants.” He knelt up to untie the string at my waist, and the dip in the bed made Cumberbatch roll slightly towards me. He looked guileless and peaceful in his sleep, his tawny curls falling forward on his brow.

I reached out toward his face. His breath fluttered against my fingertips, invisible butterflies, and the sensation made me groan. Zach had rid me of my clothing by then, and when he tongued the tip of my cock I cried out, before snatching my hand back to cover my mouth.

Quinto chuckled. “I told you. He won’t wake.” With that, he made a horrible noise in the back of his throat, working up a ball of phlegm. I watched him spit, with an accuracy born of practice, right at the Englishman’s cheek. It slid a slow path down his face.

Cumberbatch did not even flinch.

“See?” Zach said. “He won’t wake. Touch him, if you like.”

Lord Benedict Cumberbatch, unconscious and unable to stop me from doing whatever I wanted. Something bitter rose in my throat, and for a moment I wanted to spit on him too, slap him, carve my initials into his forehead. Power, as they say, corrupts. But it was only a moment. I could no more touch that sleeping face than I could have killed a man.

Zach took me right down, giving me the kind of suck job he hadn’t bothered with since we left the Chateau, and I arched up, plunging into his mouth. When he pulled up again, I quivered and mewled and demanded, but he was looking at Cumberbatch.

“Touch him,” he said again. “Kiss him or hurt him or whatever you’d like to do to him. Don’t hold back.”

“I don’t want to do anything to him,” I said. There was a rolling inside me like a great ocean wave, a flotsam-strewn swell of lust and need and some seaweedy, unidentifiable tendril curling round my heart. “All I want is you,” I said. “I don’t want to hurt him.”

He sat up again, a disbelieving smile crinkling his eyes. “Of course you do. He’s hurt you, hasn’t he?”

“Oh, Zach,” I breathed. “No. No, I don’t want to.”

His eyes were cold again. “What if _I_ want you to?”

It must have been the drug made me well up with tears. I’m not a crier by nature. “Please don’t make me.”

“Oh, no, sweetheart. No, no. I’d never make you do anything you didn’t want to do. Will you shoot for me? Will you empty yourself here, like this, on his bed, so I can remember that? Remember the smell of it and the sight—”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes.”  That I could do. But that was mean enough, Zach encouraging my climax while his lover—his _keeper_ , and mine—lay unawares next to us. Quinto pulled down his trousers and rubbed against me, as hard as I was, with a liberal coating of spit to make the way smooth. I could see him sneaking glances to his left, watching Cumberbatch with a half-smile.

I reached up to his face. “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t look at him. Look at me.”

He kissed me fiercely for that, and redoubled his efforts until I erupted like a geyser, shouting so loud it should have roused the dead.

But it did not rouse Cumberbatch.

Zach followed soon after, grinding into my softening flesh as though my very limpness excited him. I yelped once or twice as he leant too hard on my wounded shoulder, and he gasped out his sorries but kept on, relentless. He was looking into my eyes when he peaked triumphantly.

“What are we doing?” I whispered afterwards.

Zach rolled off me, and off the bed, and plucked at his shirt. It was wet all down the front. “We are soaking my Valentino,” he said with a laugh.

I turned my head to look at him. “Is that going in an envelope, too?”

Something flickered in his eyes. “No,” he said shortly, and went into the walk-through. I could hear him pushing around coat hangers.

I looked to the side again, at Cumberbatch. My enemy. He was powerless now, and Zach had been right: I could have done anything to him. I could have killed him, quickly and easily; a pillow over the face, like I’d wanted to do downstairs, or take up the Swiss Army knife from the first aid kit and push the blade neatly through his eyeball, into that barbarous brain of his.

My thoughts scared me, then. I sat upright, my head spinning, and reached for a familiar handkerchief. Carefully, I wiped Zach’s spit off the man’s face.

Quinto came back out with a new shirt on, and looked at me. “You’re not bleeding again, at least,” he said. “You should go back to your room.” No offers to clean me, not after my gibe. Still it irritated me, that he’d use me like he had and not even bother to wipe me down after his ride was through. I remembered Alice in the stables, brushing down her wet thoroughbred and turning away from my kiss.

I gingerly lowered my legs to the floor.

“Careful,” he said. “Take your time.”

“So you’ve been drugging me all along,” I huffed. “Is that it? That’s what gets me so hot for you? Because I can’t see any other reason I’d let you do the things you do to me.”

He was quiet until I looked up, and by that time he’d schooled his face into polite distaste, like I’d made an off-color joke at a dinner party. “If it helps you to believe it, then I suppose you shall.”

I wanted to believe it. Oh, how I wanted to. I wanted to pin the blame on him, on his drugs, on witchcraft or the weather or the phase of the moon.

“Where’d you really meet him?” I demanded.

“I told you. I met Benny during the war, when we—”

“For Christ’s sake, knock it off,” I said, exhaustion making me sway where I stood. “You, fighting for _this_ country? You’re no patriot. Tell me truly, now: where’d you meet him?”

There was a long moment during which I regained my balance, and Zach stared at my feet, his brows still drawn together. “Why, of course it wasn’t the war,” he said at last, looking up. “I’m surprised you ever believed me. He picked me up one evening in a London club. Satisfied?”

I shrugged. “It may be another lie, but it sounds about right.” He ignored the dig, and I felt a shallow, childish pique that I couldn’t needle him like I wanted. “Well, then, Pinocchio, what are we going to do about—”

“We’ll discuss it tomorrow. For now, I’ll see to Benny.”

“See to him?”

“See to him.” He piled my robe and pajama pants across my arms before pushing me to the door. “Goodnight.”

“Don’t…” I turned in the corridor outside, naked and shivering, unsure what I wanted to tell him. “Don’t do anything foolish.”

He smiled then, eyes hooded and teeth clenched tight. “I never do, if I can help it.”

 


	15. D.O.A.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I had no proof, but I knew someone had ended a life with a well-placed shove. Chance is too merciless to perform such acts of generosity. Someone had given chance a helping hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: violence - broken bones, suggested domestic violence, burning/branding, murder, blood

Given the way I’d left things, it was something of a surprise the next night when Lord Cumberbatch turned up for dinner alive, if not quite well. Zach, Alice and I were gathered and waiting at the foot of the grand double staircase, watching the time tick by on the grandfather clock. At any moment I expected Zach to make some remark about punctuality, and send Miles to find a corpse, or go himself. But just when I couldn’t stand the waiting any more, a shadow bloomed across the upstairs landing, followed by the man himself.  Cumberbatch shambled downstairs like a zombie. This must have been, I thought, what it was like to witness Lazarus wandering out of his tomb. The Englishman looked worse for wear, and there was a gray cast to his face. But he was whole and breathing, and lucid enough to snap at Miles for taking too long to pour the wine once we were seated.

Zach wouldn’t look at me the whole night. It was just as well. I was sick with disgust—at him, at Cumberbatch, but most of all at myself. What kind of man had I become that I was disappointed by the lack of murder? Yes, Cumberbatch was a demon, a beast, a monster. He plagued people with misery wherever he went and no one would mourn him. But I could feel something evil settling comfortably into me like dry rot. Since I’d met Quinto, I’d gradually tossed aside every moral I had, even the dusty ones from the forgotten corners of my heart. If murder seemed like a reasonable way out, what other horrors were lurking inside me just waiting to be freed? Maybe it had been the same for Cumberbatch.

All I knew was, I wanted out. I had to find a way. Even if it ended with me choking on my own teeth in a dark alley courtesy of the Weller Boys, at least I could hold on to my soul. I began to think longingly of a place I’d never been, never seen even but in one grainy photograph my sister had sent Ma early on in her marriage: Katie and her husband and their fat firstborn, standing in front of an enormous barn. Katie had her hair tied back under a kerchief and a grin so broad that, like Ma’d said, you could sharpen an ax on it. First time I saw that picture I’d shrugged and thought, _Good luck, big sis_. Out in the middle of nowhere and nothing but hard work to look forward to for the rest of her life.

After living among the idle rich, it seemed like an Eden to me.

For the next few days I did my best to avoid everyone, trying to air out my soul and come up with a workable plan. After all, I didn’t want my belly slit if I could avoid it. I took long walks around the estate and spent some time staring at the pool. The fine weather had turned in a sudden about-face so that it was uncharacteristically cold and wet for Los Angeles. One morning I asked Miles, when he woke me with my customary coffee and toast, whether the wood-burning fireplace in my room was functioning.

“Yes, sir,” he said quietly. “I’ll see that it’s cleaned and stocked by this afternoon.” I noticed then that his ring and middle fingers were taped together, and wondered about it.

“Hey,” I said, and pushed myself up to sit against the headboard.

He paused in opening the curtains, the bandaged hand raised to draw them apart. “Yes, sir?” But still he wouldn’t look at me. I searched for something to say, while he stood with the kind of tension a man gets in his back when he’s holding his breath.

“I’ll bet Mr. Quinto was pleased his laundry was seen to,” I tried at last, and reached for my coffee cup.

He yanked aside the curtain so hard that the hooks screamed along the pole. “ _Yes_ , sir,” he said; only two words, but his voice broke on them.

“Hey,” I said again, startled. “Hey, now, what’s got into you this morning, Miles?”

“I beg your pardon, sir,” he muttered, and made to leave the room.

But I’d seen his face then, the paroxysm of terror that twisted it. I sprang out of bed, naked as the day I was born, and grabbed at his arm. He shrank back against the wall, but I kept his wrist. I held his hand up and saw that while this one wasn’t bandaged, it was marked in red stripes with a welt clear across the middle of his palm.

“Who did this to you?” I demanded, my stomach twisting.

He pulled his hand from mine. His lips trembled and his eyes were blinking rapidly, rolling around as though he was embarrassed about my nudity. He shook his head. But whether he meant no, or whether he meant he wouldn’t say, I never knew. He raised clumsy hands to unbutton his shirt, pulling it out of his pants. He got all the way to shrugging it off before I could speak past my astonishment.

“What the hell are you playing at, you dippy kid?” I snatched at his wrists again.

He looked at me, bewildered. To my horror, he sank to his knees. I let go my hold on him, and he got one injured hand on my prick before I shoved him away. He scrambled backwards until he was pressed against the wall, as hard as if he wanted to sink into the wallpaper.

I sat on my haunches over him and put a hand to his shoulder. He was shaking fit to rattle his bones. I said gently, “Just tell me who laid into you, and then you can go.” I needed to hear it from his own lips.

But he wouldn’t say the name. He sat there curled in on himself, eyes squeezed shut and leaking tears, until I was too full of disgust at myself to keep him any longer. “Oh, get outta here,” I growled, and he fled.

I avoided my face in the mirror through my morning wash, afraid of what I’d see. After I drank my cold coffee I decided I’d better get myself out of the house, because if I saw Quinto, I might try to break his fingers right back, and that wouldn’t help anything.  I wandered down to the pool. It was overcast and cool, although I’d warmed up with my walking, and the pool waters looked grey and murky. There was a collection of bilious green scum in one corner. In the distance, I could see Alice on her horse, making her way back to the stables. I couldn’t face her, either, and so I slunk off to the side of the estate, where there was a small, enclosed rose garden and a gazebo with buckling flagstones. And there I sat and thought about how I’d ended up there, and whether I was ever going to get away from the place.

 

***

 

I stayed out until the temperature got too cold for comfort, and the sun was low on the horizon. I’d not seen a soul all day, except for poor Miles, and I was feeling black still about how that interaction had gone. I snuck up the back stairs from the servants’ entrance and managed to get to my room without seeing anyone.

When I slipped inside my room, it was very warm. Miles had been as good as his word; the fire was stoked up high and blazing away with a comforting crackle. With a start, I noticed Alice sitting on my bed, shadowed by the soft red firelight. She gave me a wan smile.

“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I’ve been to see Benny. He’s been quite unwell recently. But then as I was passing your room on my way back, I came over quite faint. I thought I’d better sit here quietly and wait for it to pass. I hope you don’t mind.”

“Of course not,” I said, and crossed the room. “Would you like a glass of something? I’m afraid I only have bourbon, or water, of course—”

“No, thank you. I’m afraid there’s not much I can do. It will pass, or it will get worse.”

“Is it one of your migraines?” I asked, hushing my voice.

“I’m afraid it might be.” She looked up at me and gave a brave smile. “Do you know, I might have some water after all? It’s jolly hot in here, isn’t it?”

I brought Alice a glass of water and a damp washcloth to hold to her brow. She was still seated on my bed, clutching at the nearest post. It put me in mind of the last time she’d been hanging on to a bedpost, and I tried to thrust the memory away.

“Lie down,” I suggested, as she pressed the cool cloth to her neck.  “Here, let me—” I arranged the pillows for her and leaned over her to brush her hair back.

“You’re very kind,” she murmured. She gazed at my mouth, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “Very kind, Chris. One forgets that people can be kind when one lives so close to wickedness. I feel quite… _safe_ with you.”

The door burst open. It was like a B-movie villain making his entrance: Cumberbatch was framed in the doorway with the landing light behind him making him more silhouette than solid.

“What in God’s name is _going on?_ I _told_ you—” he began at once.

“Keep your voice down,” I said sharply over my shoulder. “Can’t you see she’s sick? Why are you busting in here like that, anyhow?”

I’ll admit it wasn’t the best way to speak to him, not when I could hear the fury and the passion shaking the timbre of his voice, but I was in no mood to deal with the tantrums of Lord Benedict Cumberbatch. Pegg skulked in behind him, and I began to wonder if we were going to make a French farce of it.

But: “Hold him,” Cumberbatch hissed, and immediately, Pegg dragged me off the bed.  The glass in my hand fell with a faint thud to the floor. The water soaked in immediately, turning the burgundy carpet a deep rust red. With brisk competence, Pegg twisted my right arm behind my back, up, up, until I danced on my toes for him. I was completely and painfully immobilized.

“What in the—” I began.

“Settle down, boy-o.” Pegg sounded calm and reasonable, and I stopped struggling with him. He let up on my arm some, and the relief kept me obedient. “Are you alright, your Ladyship?”

She sat up on the bed and shuffled to sit at the edge. “I felt faint, so I came in here. It was the closest room. Let poor Chris go, for goodness’ sake.” My heart swelled at her immediate leap to my defense, and I tried to catch her eye, but she was shielding her face from the light coming in from the landing.

“Hold him,” Cumberbatch said again. “Let him go, Pegg, and it will mean your job.”

Pegg’s hold stayed vice-like on me, but I could hardly fault the man. “He’s not going anywhere, your Lordship; I’ve got him. But Lady Alice does seem unwell and I think—”

“I don’t pay you to think. And you’re the one who reported this clandestine meeting to me, Pegg. You have your suspicions as well.” He strolled to the fireplace, where he laid a hand on the mantel and looked deep into the flames.

My sense of the ridiculous kicked in, and I gave a chuckle. “If you’re so sore at me, Benny, just throw me out.”

Alice stood, swaying a little, and said, “I’m going to my room.”

Cumberbatch whirled around, just about clicking his heels together as he stopped, and suddenly I could see the martial training, the rigid posture, the exact placement of his hands crossed behind his back. His eyes were hooded and black in the meager light from the fire. “Sit. _Down_.”

Alice kneaded her temple. She sank onto the bed again, and clutched a handful of the duvet so hard I half-expected it to pop and fill the room with a flurry of duck feathers.

“ _None_ of you have any idea what it’s like to live with the kind of responsibilities I have. My family’s lands, my family’s title, my family’s fortune: they rest on my shoulders alone.”

Even Pegg gave a little sigh when Cumberbatch started up. I felt like pointing out that Lady Alice Eve had just as much claim to the family lands, title and fortune as he did, but I didn’t want to prolong the scene. Alice looked fearful.

“Do you know what a job it was to guard my cousin’s virtue in London? And now living here in this hell, the devils are inside the gate. My God, some nights I fancy I should chain you to your bed, Mr. Pine, just to make sure you sleep in it. You think I don’t know what you get up to behind my back? It’s not enough that you try to take Zach from me, but Alice, too?” He paused to smile at my spluttering denials, and then swept on. “Yes, oh yes, I know all about your fumbling attempts at seduction with my cousin. And I know just how far you see yourself climbing. I dare say you think ruining her would be the quickest way to marriage!”

I sneered; I couldn’t help myself. “For Christ’s sake, I just told you I’d leave. I’ve no burning wish to stay in this place.”

“You’ve no burning wish,” he repeated, and ambled to the fireplace.

“Makes me sick the way you swan around,” I told him, “flashing cash like it solves every problem in the world, accusing us all of perverted things you just _wish_ you could do yourself—”

“Silence!”

“Please,” Alice murmured. “Please don’t, Chris.”

“You all need to learn some self-control. Not to mention showing some _gratitude_ ,” he blew on, pacing in front of the fireplace. He stopped by my desk, on which my typewriter sat, with my neatly stacked draft papers next to it. “Show some appreciation for what I do for you, each and every day, without expecting anything in return. Why, without me _this_ wouldn’t exist.” He stabbed his finger down on my draft novel.

The back of my neck prickled, and it had nothing to do with the way Pegg was breathing open-mouthed at it.

I said: “You’re right, Benny. You’re right, absolutely, yes, we should be much more grateful.”

“Yes, Benny,” Alice said weakly. “We are, you know. Very grateful to you, Benny.”

I pressed Pegg’s toe with my heel. “Oh, er, yes. Very grateful, your Lordship.”

I began to wish I’d kept my trap shut when Cumberbatch got a gleam in his eye. “At least Pegg here shows me some respect. It’s more than the rest of you bother to do. Tell me, is this what you’ve been playing at writing, Chris?”

I had to answer, had to try to placate him. “Yes. I’m afraid it’s not very—”

“Perhaps I should see what fruit my investment has sprouted.” He picked up the first few pages and flicked through them. I stood very still. It felt to me as though he were cradling my first-born in loose arms. _Hire a typist to whip you up a copy, soon as you can_ , Scribner had advised me, but of course I hadn’t listened, and now my enemy held the only draft in his thin-fingered hands.

“Oh, dear me. No,” Cumberbatch said, leafing through. “No, no, no, this is terrible dreck. What _can_ Zach have been thinking?”

“It’s a first draft,” I said desperately. Alice was blinking at her cousin through her pain, almost curious.

“There is really nothing redeemable here,” Cumberbatch said, and wandered back to the fireplace. “Best to put it out of its misery.”

The room was much too hot. “Benedict, please. Please don’t.”

He looked across at me.

“Lord Cumberbatch,” I tried. “Please, sir. Please, your Lordship—”

“It’s much too late for that,” Pegg murmured in my ear, just as Cumberbatch let the first page fall from his fingers and on to the low-burning fire. There was a flash of yellow as it touched, and it burned up quickly.

It was only the front page, I told myself. Just my name and _A Novel_ , because I hadn’t settled on a title yet. “What do you want?” I asked.

He smiled at me as he laid on the next few pages, delicately and carefully so that they caught immediately and flared. From beside me, I heard Alice sigh. Cumberbatch turned back to the desk and collected a large handful of my papers.

“Whatever you want, I’ll do it,” I said. “You have all the power here, Lord Cumberbatch, so whatever—no— _no_ — _you son of a bitch!_ ”

Once I started screaming at him, I couldn’t stop, even when Alice pressed her hands over her ears. Cumberbatch didn’t even acknowledge me. I managed to grapple free for a moment, my fury giving me strength, but Pegg grabbed me back and this time crushed his a forearm across my throat as well as twisting my wrist up behind my back. He was like stone, stoic as I kicked my heels against his shins and thrashed around.

A voice finally cut across my caterwauling.

“What the devil’s going on here?” Zach stopped in the doorway, staring at us all like we were actors in an absurdist play. He must have been in the process of undressing when he heard the commotion, for his shirt was untucked and his cuffs free. He was shoeless, which explained why we hadn’t heard him running down the corridor. Of course, my shrieking had probably muffled it some, too.

“Ah, Zach,” Cumberbatch said. “At last. Please, join us.”

“My book,” I wheezed. The combination of Pegg’s constricting arm and my shouting had rendered me breathless, but Zach, glancing around the room, took my meaning at once. I saw him change, like a magic trick, or like an actor cloaking himself in a different persona. He gave an easy smile at Cumberbatch.

“My goodness, Benny,” he said. “What on earth are you doing? I haven’t even had a chance to read it. Surely it’s not _that_ bad.”

Cumberbatch obstinately crumpled another few pages and threw them on the fire, which was burning away merrily now.

“Come now, my best beloved, you _must_ give me a chance to—”

“Must? _Must_? What _must_ I do for you now, Zach?”

Quinto realized instantly that he’d chosen the wrong tack, and I saw him adjust. I loved him in that moment—loved the man for exactly who he was. The schemer who could weasel his way out of anything, lay out a banquet of lies and make you eat them up. If there was anyone alive who might save my novel…

This time when he spoke it was as if he were calming a sticky-fisted, bawling toddler. “Why, you should do whatever you want, of course, Benny. Whatever you like in the whole wide world, you can do it. You’re such a generous and giving man and you deserve to have all the best and most wonderful things. You exhaust yourself making sure everyone else is seen to, so won’t you come downstairs and have a drink and let me see to you instead?”

Another fistful of papers fed the fire. “A drink, you say? So you can dope me and tuck me into bed like a child? No, thank you.”

For the first time, Zach seemed uncertain.

Alice was listening intently. Even Pegg seemed to be poised and waiting, wondering. The humid air gusting my neck stopped as he held his breath.

“I don’t quite know what you mean,” Zach said at last. Wrong play. I slumped in Pegg’s arms.

“I mean I’d rather not be served up my customary whiskey and soda and opiate by you tonight.” A few more pages floated onto the inferno. I wanted to look away, but I couldn’t. The sight of those pages, curling and incandescent, seared itself into my eyes.

“Don’t do this, Benny,” Zach said softly. “No good will come of it.”

The man wouldn’t listen. We all watched him until he got down to the final chapter of the manuscript. He looked up at Zach, a cruel light in his face. “I wonder,” he said, “just how much you value this asinine fiction.”

“Whatever you want, Benny, I will do for you,” Zach murmured submissively, and I tried not to feel some hope. The last chapter I’d written was the best chapter, and I’d been building up rapidly to the climax. I could recreate the first parts if I had to, if something could be salvaged. All I wanted was a scrap, a crumb of what had been, meager proof that I had maybe _some_ talent in me.

“That’s the shirt you bought in Paris, isn’t it?” Cumberbatch said, and Zach looked down at himself with a frown. “Or rather—the shirt that _I_ bought you in Paris.”

“Yes.”

It was a beautiful silk shirt, fine as cobweb, cream in color and soft as feather down.

“Take it off.”

“I beg your—”

“You heard me.”

Zach unbuttoned it and slipped it off his shoulders. He was bare-skinned underneath. Alice, I noticed, did not look away. Zach held the shirt out, but the aristocrat ignored the gesture.

“Burn it,” Cumberbatch said, and Zach, with no expression at all, balled it up and stepped forward to the fireplace. He dropped the shirt neatly on the flames, and it went up as easily as the pages of my novel. Cumberbatch used the poker to stuff the skeleton seams into the coals of the fire. “Those trousers,” he continued. Zach brushed a hand over his thigh, gentle as a lover, as though soothing himself. “I bought them for you in Milan, didn’t I? Hand-dyed, hand-spun wool, and the tailor charged an exorbitant amount.”

“Yes,” Zach said. “It was very thoughtful of you to buy them for me.”

“Take them off.”

Zach’s fingers played with the button before he seemed to make up his mind. He stripped the pants off with great care. Sagging against Pegg, I wondered why he bothered. We all knew what was coming, after all. He shook them out and even folded them carefully over his arm to preserve the crease.

“Burn them.”

He was slower this time than he had been with the shirt, but he did it. The room filled with the stink of toasting wool, and I could see thick dark smoke billowing up the chimney. Zach stood there staring, in his underpants and socks, beside Cumberbatch in front of the fire, until he moved away to scavenge in the cigarette box on my desk. The box was empty; I hadn’t bothered to restock it with Gauloises that morning as a feeble gesture of revenge.

Now I felt I’d failed him.

“Next, Benny?” Zach asked. “My underclothes? You’ll have to excuse Alice in that case.”

“It’s nothing she hasn’t seen before,” Cumberbatch said congenially. He stoked the fire, then left the poker with the tip buried in the heart. With his other hand, he held up the remnants of my manuscript. “So, you really do care about this tripe.”

“It seems to me,” Zach replied, “that you were getting your money’s worth as a patron. At the very least.”

“Oh, at the very least,” Cumberbatch agreed. “Yes. Go to the door and shut it.”

While Zach did as he was asked, Cumberbatch pulled over the chair from my desk, a straight-backed spindly antique of a thing that murdered my spine when I sat in it too long, and set it in front of the fireplace. He sat on it, crossing his legs and looking for all the world as though he were only enjoying the fireside warmth. My papers were still crumpled in his hand.

He smiled at Zach, who was watching him warily from near the door. “Now get on your knees and crawl over here.”

Zach sank to his knees, and I couldn’t bear it any longer. “Don’t,” I said.

“It’s alright. Benny just wants me to know my place. Don’t you, Benny?”

“Don’t!” I repeated. “For God’s sake, Zach.”

“Perhaps we should find a muzzle,” Cumberbatch said.

“There’s no need,” Zach said. “He’ll stay quiet.” He gave me one of his pleading glances, and I gave up. He crawled to Cumberbatch like a dog and sat back on his sock-covered heels, his head bowed.

Whatever else happened, I vowed to myself, I was leaving this house tonight. I could forgive Pegg for holding me, but I’d never be able to forget it. Cumberbatch, though, was another story. I’d be damned if I’d spend another night beholden to him. Maybe he’d send the Weller Boys after me, and maybe they’d get the better of me, but I preferred the idea of an honest fight, even five on one, than this kind of abasement.

“What are you waiting for?” Cumberbatch asked. “You’re acting as though you’ve never been in this position before, Zachary.”

I wanted to look away, but I was transfixed. Zach bent forward as though he were paying obeisance to an idol, lower and lower until his lips pressed against Cumberbatch’s left shoe. He rose to sit back on his heels with a perfectly straight back.

Cumberbatch uncrossed his legs, and planted the sole of his shoe in Zach’s chest. He straightened his knee, and Zach sprawled backwards from the kick, ungainly and awkward.

“It’s really not worth burning your dirty underclothes,” Cumberbatch said. “But—here. You can throw this on.” He tossed the remnant of my novel with a flick of his wrist, and the papers scurried across the floor. “Every page,” he said. “Every single page.”

Zach said: “No.”

Alice gave a little exhalation, not quite a word. She looked surprised.

“Burn them,” Cumberbatch insisted.

Zach righted himself, pulling every limb into place even as he stayed kneeling on the carpet. “I will bring out every piece of clothing you’ve ever bought me, Benny, and we can have a bonfire in the southern field if you like. But I will not burn those pages.” He looked Cumberbatch straight in the eye as he said it, and I heard Pegg mutter an incredulous and admiring curse. I couldn’t stop a sob escaping.

Cumberbatch scoffed at the sound of it, and stood. “Gather up those pages and burn them,” he said. “Because if you don’t, Zach, it won’t be your clothes I go after next. It will be something even closer to your heart.”

There was real fear in Zach’s face at the threat, and I didn’t want him making any more foolish stands for my sake. Cumberbatch pulled the poker out of the fire at that moment. The tip of it glowed red.

“Burn the damn thing,” I hacked out. “For Christ’s sake. Burn it.”

The aristocrat laughed, and returned the poker to the embers of the fire.

“No,” Zach said, and then fatefully, “You wouldn’t, Benny.”

Cumberbatch raised his eyebrows and laughed. “A challenge?”

“No. No, it’s not a challenge.”

“I think it was, you know. Are you going to burn those pages?”

Zach’s eyes flashed. “No.”

Cumberbatch took up the poker again, and looked across at me. It was the alarm in Zach’s eye that made me realize the Englishman’s intention. I quailed in Pegg’s arms. I felt his grip falter, but then he hissed, “He won’t,” and I believed him. I stayed docile, although I shrank away when Cumberbatch stalked over, poker in hand, and roughly unbuttoned my shirt.

“Last chance, Zach. Will you put that rubbish on the fire where it belongs?”

Zach tiredly rose to his feet. “No, Benny. Now put that poker down.”

I remember the burst of pain that radiated from the center of my chest to the rest of my body, as though my heart had exploded inside me. It only lasted a moment or two, the agony, but the shock of it kept me hollering much longer.

Yes, the pain is what I remember happening first, but my most vivid memory is the stench of it, a smell so horribly close to roasting meat that I might’ve salivated. I believe it must have struck everyone in the room as uncannily as it did me, because Pegg let me go at once with an oath, and Alice dashed to my bathroom, gagging.

Cumberbatch was prostrate on the floor, his nose bleeding and his hair falling forward over his high forehead. He looked unbearably young and upset, like a child chastised by his mother. He stared up at Zach, his mouth not quite working to make a word from the sounds in his throat.

The noises everyone else made stuck with me, too, _Are you alright are you alright_ —the sound of Alice vomiting and a panicked Pegg— _I never thought his Lordship would ever—_ water running in my bathroom— _Are you alright_ —and Alice, again, calm and soothing, her hands on me, _Run and get some ice, Pegg—quickly now—_

Zach was stuck like a scratched record, _Are you alright, Are you alright, Are you alright,_ until I roared at him, “Get your goddamn hands off of me!” and pushed him away. I saw Cumberbatch clambering to his feet, his face astonished and upset, ice-blue eyes wide and watering like the wrong had been done to him instead.

“Zach!” he gasped, and Quinto turned on him, grabbing him by the throat.

“God damn you to hell!” he shouted, full in the Englishman’s face. Cumberbatch went red-faced, his eyes bulging and his hands plucking at Quinto’s on his neck.

“Zach,” Alice said coolly. “Stop that at once and help me with Chris.” It took but a moment before Zach released the man, who fell back to the floor, coughing and spluttering.

Quinto stood over him, breathing hard. “Miles yesterday, Chris today _—_ no more, Benny, do you understand me? No more.”

Cumberbatch gaped at him. “What do you _—_ ”

“Listen to me,” Zach spat. “I’ll kill you myself before you touch anyone else again. Do you hear me?”

He heard, and what’s more, I could tell he believed. I think it was the first time I’d ever seen Cumberbatch afraid. But then he looked at me, and the fear transfigured into a depth of hatred I’d never seen before.Alice turned to pick up a cloth, and I took my opportunity to run.

I stumbled out of the room, pelted along the corridor and half-fell down the grand staircase. But for Zach running right along with me and catching me back, I would’ve tumbled all the way down.

“Careful,” he said, as sharp as he’d pulled my elbow, but I wrenched myself out of his grip. I clung to the bannister the rest of the way down and he matched me step for step, but cautious, like he knew I’d go boom if he touched me again.

The front door was locked and latched, and I banged on it like there might be someone on the other side of it with a key. “Let me out of this house,” I demanded. “You’re crazy, the whole lot of you, and you can all stay here and eat each other up like piranhas if you want, but I’m out of here. I’ll take a train tonight and get as far away from the lot of you as I can.”

“Chris, please,” Quinto said, his voice shaking. “You’re hurt. I can’t let you go running through Bel-Air in this state. Let Alice patch you up and then—”

“I won’t stay here another damned second! That man means to kill me, so get the key and open the door or I’ll—”

“I’ve got the key,” said Pegg. He was standing above us on the staircase landing. He held it up to show me: the master key, with which he locked up the house each night. “I’ve got it and I’m not opening that door or any other door until you let her Ladyship sort you out, proper-like. So go into the drawing room and wait for her.” He seemed dead calm again, with just a few drops of sweat gleaming on his brow to give him away.

“No,” I said stubbornly, but it was Zach who stuck the knife in.

“Come and have a drink,” he said, and the Serpent himself couldn’t have made me a better offer just then.

The bourbon needed restocking in that room, so he gave me whiskey instead, no soda and no ice. My teeth chattered on the glass. The first mouthful tasted awful and it reminded me of Cumberbatch.

“Where is he?” I asked, suddenly tensed for flight again. I set my glass down hard on the side table. The drink sloshed over my hand.

“Shh, it’s alright,” Zach said, flapping around me like a mother hen, but it was less irritating now that fear had overruled my anger. “He’s asleep, or will be any moment; Alice is giving him something to knock him out. He’s not here, sweetheart. He can’t hurt you any more.”

“Of all the lies you’ve told, that one’s the biggest,” I said to him, and I let that sink in while I wiped my wet hand off on my pants. “It’s what he’s devoted his whole life to, hurting people. Me. Alice. And you…” I thought about him crawling back across the floor to Cumberbatch’s feet and kissing them like a slave, and I bit my lip. “Why’d you do it?” I asked, my voice cracking. “You shoulda just burned the silly thing, it’s not worth a damn anyway, not worth your clothes or your pride or my flesh.”

“No, oh _no_ ,” he cooed in my ear, and his arms went around me gingerly. “No, my darling, my dearest, it was worth far more than my cheap hide, that’s for sure, and it’s me he should’ve—he should’ve—”

“ _Branded_ ,” I supplied into his neck. “He branded me like property and now I’ll always have his mark on me, always and forever—”

“Don’t say that, don’t say that,” he begged. “Why look, here’s Alice, she’ll make it all better. She’ll make it all go away.  Now drink up—” Here he pressed the glass into my hand.  “—and I’ll pour you another.”

“Oh, no, you won’t,” Alice said, snatching the glass from me. “Don’t you give him any more. He’s had a shock. He needs rest, not drink.”

I was feeling lightheaded anyway, so I didn’t protest.

Alice handed a robe to Zach. It was one of the BC-embroidered robes from my room, and I had to hide my face again, like a child afraid of the monster under his bed. Alice pried me out of Zach’s arms long enough that he could dress himself, and then I found myself clinging to him again.

“Was it very awful, before I arrived?” Zach asked her quietly.

“Oh, the usual,” she sighed, and mimicked—poorly—Cumberbatch’s resonant tones. “The responsibilities I have! My family’s lands! My family’s title! My family’s fortune!”

Zach joined in with her: “They rest on my shoulders alone!” and they exchanged a small, sad smile.

“Lie him down, would you?” she asked, and Zach laid me out on the couch. They hovered over me and I felt like a child waking from a nightmare to find both my parents standing guard over me. My father has always been just as concerned as Ma ever was, much to my embarrassment at that age.

“Soft,” I mumbled.

“I’m so sorry,” Alice said. “I’m being as gentle as I can.” She began by disinfecting the wound, and I did my best to hide my hiss at the sting of it.

“I should have been there,” Zach sighed. “From the start.”

“What good would that have done?” she asked.

“You’re right, I suppose, given how I lost my temper with him. He may never forgive me. But that’s it, isn’t it? I’m the one he wants to hurt. I’m the one who’s angered him.”

“Benny’s eaten up with anger. You know that. Only he doesn’t realize why he hurts, so he hurts others. There’s nothing any of us can do about it now; only endure.”

She was so pragmatic about it and so right, that Zach fell silent under her gaze. He petted himself down, looking for his cigarette case out of habit, and slipped fingers into the breast pocket of his robe. I saw his brow furrow as he drew out the dull gold star I’d lifted from Cumberbatch’s jewelry drawer.

“I found it—” I started, but he took up my hand, pressing it between his own two, before I could explain.

“You found it, my darling,” was all he said. I felt the cool metal warm rapidly between our hands.

“Your migraine, Alice,” I said into the ensuing silence. “I don’t want you to make it any worse.”

She quirked her mouth. Zach gave a fond, watery laugh and kissed my palm. “Oh, lover. There’s simply no subterfuge in you at all.”

Alice said nothing, but kept working. Her hands were deft, and I tried to say as much to her. My mouth wouldn’t seem to work right, and I slurred it out.

“I volunteered at the local hospital during the war,” she said with a smile. “I was fourteen years old, patching up poor foolish boys every day and sending them back to the front to be killed. It was awfully demoralizing.” She gave her bandage a little pat. “There we are. Now off to bed with you. You’re just about drooling on the sofa as it is.” She went so far as to prise my eyelids wide to check my pupils.

“Can’t move,” I said. In fact, I couldn’t feel my body at all, and I looked at Zach accusingly. “You,” I said. “You…”

He raised his eyebrows. “What’s wrong with him?”

“ _You_ ,” I said insistently. “Whiskey. Drugged.”

“I did nothing of the sort,” he said with an irritated sigh.

“It’s probably the shock,” Alice said. “Don’t try to move him. Just make him comfortable here. And Zach—stay with him, won’t you?”

The last thing I heard as I drifted off was his reply.

“I won’t leave his side.”

 

***

 

When I woke, I was alone.

My cheek was glued to the satin cushion by, as Alice had predicted, my drool. I could move again, but my pulse thumped in my ear and the burn over my heart ached. I shoved myself up and had to wait for my head to stop spinning. Whatever Zach had given me—and I had no doubt he _had_ given me something—it was hanging on to me, trying to suck me back under into sleep. But I was awake.

Something had woken me.

I made my way to the side bar and got some seltzer water in a tumbler. Three glasses later, I felt less like I was moving under the weight of an ocean. My stomach settled.

Something had woken me.

I set down the glass and went to the door, quietly as I could. I don’t know what it was made me sneak like that, and crack the door slowly, but all my pussyfooting only made it worse when I saw what was waiting for me.  

At the foot of the double staircase on the other side of foyer, haphazard limbs at odd and inexplicable angles, lay his Lordship, the Marquess of Holford. He was dead; of that I was sure. His cheek was waxy white against a small puddle of blood, a discordantly cheerful bright red stain seeping over the marble floor. His arms and legs were at fantastical angles. Numbly, I realized that his head was twisted much too far around. I went closer, my heart bashing against my ribs and blocking out all other sounds, and finally took in his eyes, colder even than they had been in life. They were fixed and glassy, but suddenly I could’ve sworn I saw his eyelid flicker.

I gave a horrified shout and stumbled away, knocking into a vase that promptly teetered on its stand, fell and shattered. I kept my eyes on it instead, trying to swallow down my threatening stomach, until something caught my eye. I glanced up to see Miles coming towards me from under the archway, frowning and puzzled, and I knew he would shriek before it came out of him, deranged and unreal, echoing around the foyer. I sprang at him and slapped his face, and he cut off mid-cry like the needle had jumped off the record.

“For Christ’s sake, quit howling like that!” I told him.

At the top of the double staircase I heard footsteps, and, Pegg and Zach appeared from the east and west wings as though by stage direction. They came closer to the landing rails, each staring down in horrified fascination.

“Is he…” Pegg said, his voice hoarse. Alice appeared silently behind him, barefoot, wrapped in white silk and lace, blinking sleepily until she realized what it was at the bottom of the stairs. “Oh, no, _no_ ,” she wailed, and Pegg grabbed her, pushing her face into his neck so she didn’t have to see. It was futile, of course. I knew I’d never rid myself of the image. I doubted any of us ever would.

“Check him, Chris,” Zach said, a curious lilt to his voice. “Just in case?”

I didn’t want to go anywhere near that grotesquerie, but even from a distance I felt Zach’s will bending mine. I knelt and pressed my fingers to the distorted neck. The skin felt warm to the touch, and I turned my face away, holding my breath. At last I snatched my hand away, shaking my head up at the audience on the landing. “He’s done,” I said, and then turned to Miles, who had wrapped his arms around himself, shivering. “Go call an ambulance, kid. And the police, I guess.” And what, I wondered dully, what was Miles still doing at the mansion near midnight?

“Hold on,” Zach called from above. “Miles, hold on. I’ll make the call. You go and get a sheet so we can cover the—cover his Lordship.” Miles darted gratefully away. I couldn’t take my eyes off Zach, still standing on the landing above, his hand on the bannister. “Pegg,” he continued, looking at me, “take Alice to her room, at once. Give her a brandy.”

And so we were left alone, eyeing each other like adversaries. Zach was the first to move, walking to the top of the western stairs down which the unfortunate Englishman had taken his tumble. He stared down at the body, and then at me.

“You should go. You’ll be difficult to explain to the police when they arrive. Best if you’re simply not here.”

I skirted the remains of the Marquess of Holford and made my way slowly up towards the landing, keeping my eyes on Quinto, and stopped at the top stair. “Did you…” I began, and stopped.

“Did I what?”An age passed between us, but then he shook his head at me. “Turn around.”

I stayed where I was.

“Turn around,” he said again, his voice soft and dangerous. He reached a hand up to grasp me by the back of my neck, and turned me himself. “Do you see that?” With his other hand, he pointed over my shoulder at the body lying below. “ _That_ , sweetheart, is an accident. Serendipitous to us, perhaps, but an accident nonetheless.”

Even from this angle, Lord Benedict Cumberbatch’s pale eyes stared sightlessly at me, his mouth slightly open and a smear of blood on his cheek. I shuddered.

“Let go of me.”

But he turned me back by the neck and smiled into my face, stroking my hair like he was soothing a nervous dog. “Just do as I say and everything will be alright. Go back to the Chateau and wait there for me in the bungalow.”

He slid his hand from my neck to my shirtfront, resting above my heart, and for a wild moment I expected him to give me a shove. But then he kissed me, passionate and sloppy, breathing hard into my mouth like he was drowning in me. He wrapped me up in his arms so I couldn’t move, and I didn’t dare try to push him off despite the pain of my scorched flesh. Struggling might have unbalanced me and sent me plunging down the stairs after the dead man.

When he let me go, I gripped the bannister hard, and he gave my cheek a light pinch. His eyes sparkled into mine. “I’ll see you soon, my own true love. At the bungalow.”

“Alright,” I said, my heart hammering fit to burst from my chest.

“I’ll walk you down. These stairs are dangerous.”

“Evidently,” I said, and we made our way down to the corpse lying below. I was put in mind of the staircase scene from _Gone With the Wind_ , only there was no Rhett Butler to greet us at the bottom, just the morbid result of murder.

For it _was_ murder; of course it was murder. I had no proof, but I knew someone had ended a life with a well-placed shove. Chance is too merciless to perform such acts of generosity. Someone had given chance a helping hand.

Someone? I knew the culprit. I just couldn’t let the thought complete itself, not before I’d figured out how to react to it.

“You—you might need an alibi,” I stammered, when we reached the front door.

He raised an eyebrow. “Why on earth would I need an alibi for an accident? Goodbye for now, lover.” He touched his fingers to my lips like an absolution, and then shut the door in my face. The night air was still and calm. I heard, faintly, his footsteps retreating, and a faint _ting_ has he lifted the telephone receiver in the foyer.

I imagined him speaking to the police, surveying his handiwork with satisfaction, and I had to lean over the side rail to empty my stomach into the bushes.

 


	16. Night of the Hunter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You’re a swell guy, Chris Pine. Don’t let that get you killed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **PLEASE NOTE: Chapter contains somewhat graphic details of sexual assault and murder.**
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> Tags: homophobic slurs, sexual violence, murder, suggestions of necrophilia, gunshot, car accident.

I set off towards Sunset and hoped to come across a phone box to call a cab. Nothing doing. The people of Bel-Air liked to keep their phones inside instead of on the street. By and by, a bevy of siren-flashing cops sped by, followed by an ambulance at a more leisurely pace. I kept my head down and returned to my thoughts.

Dead. The tormentor, the jailer, the sadist: dead and gone, and I was free again. Quinto was free. Free as long as the police didn’t nose around too much. Had he really been so cold-blooded as to push Cumberbatch down that staircase? The uncertainty of the outcome made me wonder. Zach was a man whose every action seemed calculated. A hand in the back and a tumble seemed a less than certain method to rid himself of a nuisance. But then, as he’d pointed out to me, it was one of the easiest ways to make it look like an accident.

The household was asleep, after all. Some of us, in fact, had been drugged. Maybe he thought it safe enough. Maybe he was willing to finish the job if the fall didn’t work out in his favor. I thought about that mad, twisted neck and shuddered.

Drugged, I thought again: Cumberbatch had been drugged. Alice had given him something. That meant Quinto would’ve had to carry the man, or drag him to the head of the grand double staircase and pick a side and—I shook my head to get rid of the thought.

It was done. Whatever he’d done, it was _done_.

I’d made it to Sunset by then, but I still had a long walk ahead of me and my brand was throbbing. The neighborhood started changing. Telephone booths were springing up like mushrooms, and I flagged down a passing taxicab. I got him to drop me at Schwab’s, still paranoid. I was exhausted by the time I limped up Marmont Lane, making for the private entrance to the bungalows. I could think of nowhere else to go but where Zach had instructed me. At least I could gather some clothes and plan my next move—a train ticket, or bus in a pinch.

But I didn’t have the nerve yet to present myself to Monsieur Anton at the front desk and ask for a key. It was beginning to occur to me that fleeing the scene of the crime and returning to the Chateau might not have been the smartest move. If Zach needed a patsy, why, he could just point my way and give the police the bungalow address, neat and tidy. Yet here I was, and I could go no further, not tonight.

The gate was locked, but I shimmied painfully over it and stood in the shadows of the garden that had once been so familiar. The blinds on the bungalow were all drawn. For the moment, I decided to pretend I was home again; that I was waiting hopefully for Zach; that I could stroll back into my bungalow any time I pleased and drink my bourbon, listen to jazz, write my book.

My book. Christ.

I found a crumpled, near-empty packet of Gauloises in my pocket and smoked one, staring at the moon. She stared implacably back.

Wait for him, he’d said. Wait for him to what? All I could think of was that fresh corpse—something that had been human a few hours ago and was now just a broken heap of bones and flesh and cooling blood. There would be an autopsy, I supposed.

A sudden cracking noise made me jump. I put out my cigarette and was about to tail it back over the fence when I heard another crack, like something hitting glass, and then a scream, choked off. It was coming from next door—from the Magnolia Girl’s bungalow.

The fence dividing my yard from Zoë’s was tall, but easy enough to get over for a man with a purpose. Under the full moon I could see clear enough, but I heard no more noise. Her yard was similar to mine, and her bungalow seemed to be the same set-up, but a mirror image. I approached the sliding door but could see nothing amiss, no broken glass. It was dark inside, but just as I reached the door, a white figure spun out of the blackness and slammed up against the glass. I tripped over my own feet as I stumbled back in surprise, and landed painfully on my backside.

She stared straight at me, my Magnolia Girl, white-clad and terrified as she fumbled for the latch. But then she saw me, and she froze. We stared at each other, and then an arm slung around her neck from behind and she was dragged away.

I crawled quickly to the sliding door and yanked myself to my feet again. My heart thundered in an irregular beat like it was going to fail on me. Inside it was dark, but I followed the sound of frantic struggles; panting, banging, something shattering. I rounded the bedroom doorway just as a sharp echoing crack sounded, and I slapped at the light switch.

“Jesus _fucking_ Christ, you _fucking_ bitch.”

Under the yellow light the scene looked unreal. Zoë was standing on the other side of the room, backed up against the wall between the bed and the closet, gasping for breath. Her white satin slip and peignoir were torn and stained with red splatters. In her shaking hand she held a small caliber handgun, dainty as a toy but deadly if it was used right. She’d used it wrong, though; only winged the fellow menacing her. He was backing up from her, clutching at his left bicep, his face pressed into his shoulder so it took a moment before I saw him properly.

But I already knew him. I would have known that voice anywhere. He glared at me, snarling, but dropped it for a weak smile when he recognized me.

“Mate,” Karl said. “It’s not how it looks.”

I wish I could say I was surprised, but all I felt was a sick understanding. “Karl,” I said, nodding like we were passersby on a street. And when I added, “Fancy meeting you here,” it sounded ironic, stoic, like I’d expected him. I only said it because I couldn’t think what else to say. Zoë pointed the gun at me, but looked back at Karl, trying to decide which of us was the greater threat. 

My manner made Karl relax, and he gave an easy laugh. “Fucking bitch shot me,” he said. He gave Zoë a fierce grin, and she swept the gun towards him again. “Easy!” he said, and took a few more steps back. He hit the wall and slumped down it to sit on the carpet.

“Over here,” I said to Zoë. She glared, but I could tell she wanted to trust me. "Come on," I added gently. "You gotta play the cards you're dealt. So pick a card."

She scrambled over the bed towards me. Karl watched her go under hooded lids. I took the gun from her, unpeeling her fingers from it while I kept an eyeball on Karl. He’d turned his attention to the wound in his arm. It was oozing red, thick and steady.

Zoë grabbed onto my shoulder so hard I winced. It did help me steady the gun, though, when I trained it on Karl. “What the Sam Hill’s going on here?” I demanded.

“He attacked me,” Zoë said shrilly. “He jumped me and tried to strangle me—”

“I was just trying to make you see sense,” he groaned. “Shut you up for five bloody seconds and make you _listen_. You know, she pulled that gun on me right after she invited me in? Not very polite.”

“I saw you,” I said. “I _saw_ you attacking her.”

He gave a mirthless chuckle. “I’m the one with a hole through me, mate. Christ.”

“You killed her,” Zoë hissed. “You murdered my best friend, and you came after me just the same.”

He gave a rueful screwing up of his colorless lips. He looked straight at Zoë and said, “Alright, fair cop. I’m damned sorry about the whole thing, if it makes any difference.”

Zoë hocked up and spat an impressively large globule over my shoulder towards him before she tried to spring at him. I held her back, afraid that Karl might finish the job despite his injury. She struggled like a cat with a firework tied to its tail, so I pushed her out of the room and slammed the door shut on her, leaning against it so she couldn’t open it again. After a moment or two of shoving at it, she gave up, and I was stuck in the bedroom with a murderer.

I made my way slowly round the bed to look at Karl. Karl, my manager; my only friend in LA ever since I’d decided I preferred the company of bourbon to all others. Karl, who’d done me wrong and got me wrapped up in this whole business.

Karl, the Incubus?

I tried to wrap my head around the facts as I stared at him. “I guess I’ll call the ambu—” I started, but he interrupted me.

“Don’t you bloody dare. This night’s not ending with sirens and flashing lights. I'd rather die on my own terms—if I _have_ to.” When he looked at me I wasn’t sure I’d ever really had a friend in him after all.

“Why’d you do it?” I asked. “Jesus, Karl, _why_?”

He pressed his lips together.

I tried again. “You say tonight’s not ending with a hospital, and maybe you’re right. So do you want to die with a lie on your soul as well as murder? Lighten the load.”

“There’s other ways tonight could go. Aren’t we mates?”

I considered him, bunched up on the floor with an unspoken suggestion hanging on his lips. Even I wasn’t wide-eyed enough to miss his meaning. How was it I kept finding myself in line for these proposals? But I shook my head. “I don’t do murder, Karl, not even for _mates_. And Zoë’s done nothing but defend herself.”

He only nodded at Zoë’s nylons where they lay like a shed snakeskin on the floor. “Pass that over, would you? For my arm.”

I kicked it to him awkwardly and he knotted it around his arm as a tourniquet. He wiped his slick hand down his trousers, smearing them red. “Now we’re in business,” he said, and pushed himself up the wall again. “Listen,” he said to me, “we’re men of the world, aren’t we? You know how it is when you get in deep with Weller. Not to mention the toff.”

“I don’t see what your gambling debts have to do with anything.”

“Don’t you?”

“Tell me. Tell me what happened.”

“Why don’t we talk over some scenarios for tonight,” Karl said slowly. “Then after we’re all finished here, I’ll shout you a meal at a diner and we can share all the stories we like. Steak and eggs. Bourbon in your coffee. What do you say?”

The night Karl had persuaded me to sign on with him, he’d taken me to a diner and plied me with steak and eggs while he pitched his services. I hadn’t had much in my stomach besides oatmeal for a solid week beforehand, and I felt like a king letting all that grease slide down my gullet. I’d taken four refills of coffee and Karl had topped them up generously from a hipflask. Funny, now I thought about it. I hadn’t tasted bourbon before that night.

“Steak and eggs and bourbon,” I repeated, and he nodded, smiling.

“That’s right, mate. Sounds good, doesn’t it?”

It might have sounded good a year back, but besides the bourbon, I had a newly acquired taste for quail and caviar and fine champagne. I’d had the best, though it might as well have been sawdust on my tongue. But I’d picked up something else along the way as well: I’d learned how to play the game a little better.

“It does sound good,” I said. “But I’m going to have to hear the story first, Karl. I’ll take a punt on you if the odds seem good. Otherwise…” I waved the gun at him.

“Alright,” he said, with a wider grin. “Can’t blame you for wanting to check my form, can I? Well, here’s how it went down.”

He told me a tale I recognized, of getting in too deep with Weller and his gang, of desperation, of doing things a good man, a moral man would never do. For me it had been selling my body and soul to Zach. For Karl, it had been making his talent picks star in stag films. He’d got involved with the industry early on, hiring out actresses who were desperate for work, any work. Nudies and sex flicks and worse.

Halfway across the globe, Cumberbatch indulged his fetishes with impunity until he picked the wrong son of the wrong peer and found himself chased not just out of England but out of Europe. New York hadn’t proved as accommodating to his tastes as he’d hoped, so he’d hopped it to LA instead. “It’s the perfect playground for a pervert,” Karl added. “Ain’t it just? And Pete Weller willing and ready to make a buck off anything if he can.”

I shuddered to think of those two minds meeting: Pete Weller, unscrupulous but business-like, and Cumberbatch’s deviant drivers. Karl couldn’t say how they’d first managed to make contact, but according to him, Weller had been the one to suggest selling the films.

“But tastes changed right quick. Customers weren’t so keen on simple after a few weeks. Besides, there was more money when it was nasty, y’see. Cummerbund, now, he liked the blondes. Liked to see ’em beat up a bit, slapped around. He didn’t like to watch the screwing so much, but using a bottle, or a hairbrush—” I winced, and it stopped him. “I know,” he said. “I know, it’s sick. He was a sick man, that toff. But I guess you know about that already.”

“Keep going,” I said abruptly.

They’d set up a business between them, Weller and Cumberbatch. Karl told me they’d filmed in the mansion, “in one of the spare rooms, with souvenirs provided to the highest bidder.” I remembered the nightstand filled with silk handkerchiefs next to my bed, and came close to throwing up again right at Karl’s feet.

“But Cumberbatch doesn’t swing that way,” I interrupted.

He shrugged, his face squinched up in disgust. “Like I said, he never took much interest in the sex, not with the girls, not until—” He cut himself off and went on: “It was the other stuff he liked to watch, and only with the blondes. But there was a big market for the ladies, see. They filmed the blokes, too, but I didn’t want to know more about that than I had to. Gotta draw a line somewhere. Queer Street seemed about the place to draw it.”

It was a struggle not to shoot him then and there in his two-sided face. “Where exactly _did_ you fit into it all?”

“Well, they owned me, didn’t they, what with all that dough I owed?  So I did what they told me to do. They wanted a new boy to do chores up at the house, I’d send ’em one.  They wanted a girl who wouldn’t complain about taking it rough, I’d send ’em one. Some of those kids would do anything to hit it big. And, oh boy, they had it sweet, like you wouldn’t believe. That toff kept the boys sitting pretty in his mansion, and the girls, he’d put them up in this here bungalow. They had all the clothes and jewels they could ever want. They got to swan around with movie stars and drink champagne. All they had to do was put up with being filmed now and then.”

“Oh, sure. You were doing them a favor.”

“Alright, they weren’t so happy about it after, maybe. But they all took the money and they all walked away healthy enough when they got tired of it. But then I sent Rachel.” He looked down at his grimy hand. “She wasn’t like the others. There was something—something _pure_ about her. She always wore white, you know? Like a bride. But it wasn’t just the clothes. She was young. She wasn’t wise in the way of things. I still regret sending her, if you want to know.”

I didn’t. It was easier if Karl was just an out-and-out villain. Besides, I didn’t see why the other ones being jaded made it okay. But I just asked what happened next, and Karl kept talking, told me he’d convinced Rachel it was a standard stag film. They doped her up the first few times, and I didn’t press on the details there though I wondered what they used. I knew about some of those pills, how they could make you feel.

“Then one day told me they wanted _me_ to—to do it to her. Wanted me to rough her up, you know, for the camera. And to tell you the truth,” he said, defiance in his tone, “I didn’t mind so much, ’cause at least I knew I could take it easy on her.”

“But why you?”

He gave me a self-pitying look. “I guess they wanted something to hold over me, more than the money. Something to really keep my mouth shut. And like I said, I meant to be easy on her. God’s truth, I meant to, but she was so fragile. That was the problem. They kept telling me to do it harder, really give it to her—they were standing there behind the camera directing me—God, you don’t know what it was like. And I knew I’d be dead if I didn’t do it. I _had_ to, Chris. I had to. You understand, don’t you?”

“I understand, alright.” I didn’t believe him. It seemed to me more likely that he’d _wanted_ to do it, but I knew I’d never get that out of him. Besides, I was more worried about this mysterious ‘they’ behind the camera. Lord Cumberbatch would have made sure he was there for the live show, but somehow I couldn’t picture Weller there. He wasn’t the sort who took pleasure in that kind of treatment, certainly not the way Cumberbatch did. So then who, exactly, was there? I had a terrible suspicion.

There was relief in the way Karl sagged against the wall. “That’s right, mate, you know what those lot are like. My God, it was awful. Before I did it they got her to sing for the camera, made out like they were auditioning her, took the mickey. It wasn’t kind of them. No, it wasn’t kind.”

I could only stare. Karl and I had very different ideas about kindness.

“She sang Gloomy Sunday,” he said at last. “Made ’em pause. They didn’t like it much.”

“They,” I said. “You keep saying _they_. Who was there?”

“Aw, I never caught the names. Underlings. Henchmen. You know.”

“And so you killed her,” I said, when it became clear he wasn’t going to spill on who was there that night.

“It wasn’t me!” he insisted loudly. “Hand to God, mate. I took no part in it. Once I’d...when I was done, she’d passed out from the drugs. The toff, he’d been pushing me the whole time to choke her, and now he really wanted me to snuff her. But I wouldn’t. I _couldn’t_. I went to clean myself up. And afterwards, when I came back in, _he’d_ done it. He’d killed her. They were all standing around wondering what the hell to do while Cummerbund...God. He crawled into the bed with her and cuddled up. He was _bewitched_ with her, dead as she was, her lips all blue and her tongue—” He shuddered. “And then…”

“And then?” I prompted, but he’d closed off.

“I’ve never seen anything so against nature in my life,” he snapped. “So I did what I was told and got the hell out of that room. And later, the Weller Boys got rid of the body.”

I was mulling over how much I could believe of what I was being told, but Karl kept flapping his mouth. He was like a burst pustule. No stopping the muck that oozes out of it, and anyway, it’s better to let it flow. He told me all about how the story blew up in the papers after the corpse was found, and word came down at once to quit with the girls for a while. “Focus on the fairies,” as Karl put it. “Fewer of them, but they’re willing to pay more for it, the flits. Guess it’s a limited market.”

“And so you offered me,” I said grimly. “Why, I must have seemed perfect. I believe Cumberbatch thought he could even start up again with the girlie films, persuade me to take part.”

“He _was_ damned persuasive,” Karl agreed at once, trying ingratiate himself.

I was tired of the story by then. There were parts that didn’t quite hang together, but still I felt drenched with it, ill down to my marrow like their wickedness was catching. “I guess Zoë threw a wrench in the works.”

He nodded. “Moved in here and wouldn’t move out no matter what. They didn’t want to cause a fuss and have her evicted. Weren’t sure what she knew and what she didn’t. Who she’d told.” He gave me a sidelong glance.

“So you came to kill her tonight.” There was something I was missing, some small point of logic. It was throbbing in the back of my brain, just outside my consciousness.

He drew in a deep breath. “Honest to God, I was just planning to tell her what happened, warn her to get out of the city, but it got outta hand. I never meant…”

I shook my head. “That won’t do, Karl. I _saw_ you.”

He considered that, and then said, “See here, you owe me. Haven’t I looked out for you all these years? Besides, what’s something like this between mates? You know how this city works.”

It struck me I’d lived in this rotten town my whole life, but it was only tonight I’d really come to understand how things worked here. I heard a small brush against the door, and knew what it was. My Magnolia Girl was no fool. She was standing there on the other side, listening in. Waiting to see if I’d pick heads or tails.

“She’s a brave girl, this one,” I said to Karl. “You know that?”

“She’s made things mighty awkward. Awkward in a way that’ll bite you, too.”

“That’s as may be,” I said, “but there are quite a few who’ve sunk their teeth into me lately. And I’m not going to murder my neighbor in cold blood. Not for you, Karl. Not even for myself.”

He fiddled with his arm for a moment. “Alright, if that’s how you feel about it. Spot us a durry, will you?” I’d known him long enough to know what he meant, and a condemned man deserves a last cigarette, so I fished out the crumpled pack I had in my pocket.

I only took my eyes off him for a second, but it was enough. He leapt at me, grabbing for the gun, and we went down heavily. I wrestled with him, but he was a man possessed, and pinned me almost immediately. I got my head raised and bit at his wound ’til he hollered, my mouth filling up with his blood. Zoe started hammering at the door, shrieking at me. But Karl and I were lodged up against the door so she couldn’t get it open, and I didn’t want her in there with me anyway. I wanted her to get away, get free.

“Go on!” I spluttered, choking on blood. “Get out of here!”

She kept on at that door. Karl and I rolled again, and he got up on top. He was wrenching at my wrist, trying to make me aim the gun under my own chin, and I could see in his face he meant to pop me. I felt the cold metal circle nudge into my neck. “Sorry,” he grunted, and even now I’d like to think he really meant it, except he smiled when he said it.

I closed my eyes. There was a dull crunch, and his grip on my fingers relaxed. Next thing I knew he was sliding sideways off me, and the Magnolia Girl was standing over me, breathing hard. In her hand was my old friend, the bottle of bourbon I’d given her as a gift. It was whole, but smeared red.

“You okay?” she panted. “You’re all bloody.”

I turned on my side and spat out Karl’s blood as best I could. I was face to face with him on the carpet. He was blinking and moving his mouth a little, like he was trying to say something. His right eye hemorrhaged as I watched. It filmed over red and then he gave a sigh and stopped breathing.

I found myself in the unenviable position of comparing the sight of one dead body to another in a single night. Cumberbatch’s broken marionette was one thing, but then Karl’s body produced its own repulsions and the smell hit me—I was reminded of Alice in her stables, shoveling shit. My stomach roiled, and I scrambled away.

Zoë made sure I got to my feet, and then turned to leave. Before I followed her, I made myself look down at Karl again. His temple was misshapen where Zoë had belted him with the bottle. I bent and closed his eyelids. I couldn’t stand to look at that demonic crimson eye any longer.

I rinsed my mouth out and washed down my face in the kitchen sink. Zoë was sitting on the sofa in the living area. It was a Kagan sofa, I could tell, only this one was a different shape to the one in my bungalow and turquoise in color. She looked up at me. “He kicked it?”

“He’s down. You alright?”

“He attacked me,” she croaked, rubbing at her throat. “He came here pretending to make nice, but when I wouldn’t let him in, he shoved open the door. I got away, and then—well, you know that part. When I thought he was going to do for you, I grabbed this from the bar.” She held up the bottle as though she’d just realized she still held it.

She wiped off the gunk from the side with a corner of her peignoir, and worked out the bottle stopper. She took a swig, coughed ferociously, and offered it to me. “No?” She waggled it. “Well, okay.” She took another draught, gagging on it. “You should’ve let me shoot him at the start. Would’ve been a cleaner end for him.”

I felt numb about the whole thing. “I was trying to help you.”

“Help,” Zoë said, scornful despite her hoarseness. “Yeah, I know your type.  But turns out I didn’t need your help, did I?” She was calmer now, stoppering up the bottle again and clearing her throat like she could cough away the rough treatment. She stood and shrugged off the soiled peignoir, so that she stood before me in only her slip. “I need a shower. I guess you better call the cops.”

I started laughing. “You’re going to turn yourself in?” The world had gone mad. Zach turfing me out; Karl trying to kill me; Zoë throwing herself on the mercy of the LAPD.

“Of course not. It was self-defense. _He_ attacked _me_ , and then you. You’ll back me up. And anyhow, he’s the Incubus, ain’t he? They oughta give me a medal for bagging him.”

I shook my head. “You heard him. He didn’t do it.”

She gave a scornful tut. “You think he’s gonna take the blame when his life's on the line? He did it, alright.”

It wasn’t going to end well for her, I knew that much. “Incubus or not, let’s pause for a minute before we do anything else.”

She replaced the bourbon on the bar and poured herself something from a different bottle. Tequila, I noticed. Neat, no ice. “Bourbon?” she asked, after she’d thrown back her drink. The bottle of bourbon still had a smudge of blood near the bottom with a hair stuck in it. It made me queasy.

“No, thanks,” I said. I doubted whether I’d ever drink bourbon again after tonight. I thought about Karl’s blood pouring into my mouth, and had to close my eyes and breathe hard through my nose so I didn’t gag.

“Suit yourself.” She poured another tequila, and sat down with a small sigh, curling up on the sofa, her knees under her chin. “You know, I thought it was you for a while.”

“ _Me?_ ”

“Following me round the Chateau, trying to talk to me. Playing queer but always giving me the eye. Suddenly moving in next door. But then I clicked you were just chasing cooch in your off time. You gonna call the cops or not?”

I ignored her spite, sat down opposite her and rubbed a hand across my face. “I don’t like to. It’s been a messy night all round, and calling in dirty pigs won’t make a sty any cleaner. Besides, they’ll take you in.” I spoke over her protest: “They will, even if it was self-defense. They’ll take you in and keep you till they make sure.”

“What else is there to do?” she said, but I could see the worry setting in. She didn’t want the law involved any more than I did, not really.

“There’s one thing,” I said. “If we have the nerve. And a shovel.”

 

***

 

The movies always make it look no trouble at all to dig a six-foot hole in an hour or so, and fill it back up. Not so. We settled for a shallow trench in a canyon east of the city, and piled it over with rocks and branches. We worked like automatons, barely looking at each other, and giving instructions in monotone voices. We’d made the whole drive there in silence, except for one time I was set to run a red, and the Magnolia Girl snapped, “Stop!”

Her car—or Rachel’s car, I guessed, since it belonged to whichever flavor of the month was put up at the Chateau—was a snazzy Aston Martin coupe with a surprisingly generous trunk. As I skidded to a halt, there was a loud tumbling thump from the back.

“There’s no traffic,” I’d growled.

“We’re keeping our noses clean,” she’d growled back. “You willing to gamble your life and mine on a red light?”

I didn’t like being wrong, but she had a point. We reached the canyons and I told her to stay with the car, but she was resolute.

“I owe it to Rachel,” she said, and so we each took our share of the digging and the guilt.

By the time we got back to Chateau Marmont the sun was setting fire to the sky as it came up, fierce as an inferno. It was as plain a sign as any, I figured, that I’d damned myself. It was too late for me, I knew that. But if I could save Zoë from whatever Fate had in store for her, I’d settle for that. I followed her into her bungalow. I was beat, but we had more to do still. She flopped on the Kagan sofa and stared listlessly at the wall, ignoring me when I said we’d better keep moving. So I cleaned out the bedroom on my own, and after a few minutes I heard the shower in the main bathroom start.

It took me a while to get the bloodstains scrubbed to fading, and it wouldn’t fool anyone looking for them. But it would do long enough. I let Zoë in and left her to dress. When I came back, she was packing a suitcase. I watched her throw in the last few items, and she had to sit on the case to get it to shut.

All she left was a string of enormous pearls on the dressing table, laid out straight like an arrow. Pearls, I thought, running a finger over the middle luminescent globe. It was familiar to me, this necklace, and then I remembered them around Rachel’s throat on the front page, and the headline: _GARROTED._  

“Shouldn’t the police have these pearls?” I wondered.

She snorted. “You really fell for that story? The _Examiner_ paid my lunch for a week for that tip. There were bruises around Rachel’s…Anyways, they were looking for what might have made the marks on her. Said a lead like that might be worth something. So I told them about the pearls.”

"But it wasn't the pearls?"

"Well, who knows? Mighta been."

“But—”

The loud _thunk_ of Zoë’s case hitting the ground broke my train of thought.

“You done this before?” she asked, dragging the suitcase through to the living room. I followed her.

“Nope.”

“You’re mighty good at it.”

“I guess so.”

“You guess so?”

We were getting tetchy with each other, and I didn’t want that. I sighed and said, “I never buried a man before. Just for you, Magnolia Girl.”

“Magnolia Girl?”

“It’s what I took to calling you. In my own mind.”

“My name is Zoë,” she said, sounding hard. “You might want to remember that. This town likes to make flowers out of its victims, like it’ll make up for what happens to ’em. Pretties them up for the papers, I guess. Dahlias. Orchids. Magnolias.”

Shame made me bicker. “It was meant as a compliment, the nickname.”

“Sure, but it isn’t one. I’m no delicate flower, mister.”

Well, yes. I could see that now.

“Don’t give me that condescending look,” she snapped. “You know what your problem is? You don’t understand people. You look at a girl and you underestimate her. You look at a fella, and…”

“And what?” I challenged.

“Aw, forget it.” She wiped her brow and then stared at her hands as though they were still covered in dirt and dust and dried blood. “What do you think’ll happen now?”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you watch the movies? A couple can go crazy if they murder someone together.” She looked exhausted. Young.

“No fear of that,” I told her. “First off, we’re not a couple. Second, this wasn’t murder, not in cold blood. And third, I can keep a secret. Can you?”

“You got a cigarette?”

I gave her my last Gauloise. She wrinkled her nose, but she smoked it right enough, offering me a drag now and then. “You know I can keep a secret,” she said while she smoked it. “Besides, I’ve done what I came here to do. Maybe it was that snake who did it, or maybe it was his friends. Either way, he’s the one who betrayed her first. So the way I see it, he’s the one to wear the blame.”

It didn’t ring quite true, her satisfaction. I realized when she couldn’t meet my eyes that my Magnolia Girl, my unflappable Zoë, was finally shaken. Bashing a man’s brain in and burying him had done what threats on her life could not.

“Okay,” I said. “Okay, then.”

“I’m going home for a while. Laying low.”

“Where’s home?”

“Never you mind.”

I sighed. “I’m never going to see you again, am I?”

“If you’re lucky.” She sounded exasperated. “What’s wrong with you? You got a yen for trouble? You bury a body with someone, you never want to see them again. That’s the way it goes.”

“So you’re kicking me out?”

“You always take things so _personal_.”

“What other way is there to take them?” I asked, bewildered.

She hustled me to the front door and stuck out her hand. I shook it, because I didn’t know what else to do. “Nice knowing you,” she said. “Take care of yourself. Sort out that man of yours, if you want him so bad.”

“I thought you were scared of him,” I said suddenly. “You said he looked dangerous.”

“That’s _your_ problem, ain’t it?” she explained patiently, like I was a child. She kissed me on the cheek and started to push me out. “You’re a swell guy, Chris Pine. Don’t let that get you killed.”

I wheeled round, a question on my lips, but all I saw was the shut door.

 

***

 

My first worry was Pete Weller. If Karl never reported back to him, he’d come looking—or send his boys to pay a visit, anyway. Time was ticking on, and I needed to be somewhere safe, but I looked like a hobo and I was only going to attract attention outside the grounds of Chateau Marmont. I was bone-tired. My chest ached where I’d been burned, and I stank of sweat, mud, and something that reminded me of my Ma’s Sunday roast. The thought of my mother made me long for Iowa again. I’d been sending them money regularly, Katie and Ma both, but I’d long ago figured out that it was doing them a favor to stay distant—no detailed letters, no hint of the troubles I was in. No need to get them mixed up in my life, after all.

It sure wouldn’t do them any good now. Iowa wasn’t the bolthole I was looking for.

I didn’t know what would happen to me, but at that moment I needed sleep, and I needed it badly. Besides, while I stayed inside the Chateau grounds, no one would give me a second glance, and no one would rat me out, either. Wasn’t good for business. I took myself off to reception, trailing past the pool on heavy feet like a thousand partied-up guests must have done over the years. One more wouldn’t raise any eyebrows.

Monsieur Anton was on the desk. I’d never been so happy to see him.

“Hullo, friend,” I rasped out.

He gave me the once-over and then avoided eye contact just as politely as he always did. “Monsieur would like the key to his bungalow?”

“Yeah. My bungalow. And no phone calls, unless it’s Quinto himself. You know his voice?”

“Of course, monsieur,” he murmured.

Cumberbatch’s death might not have been in the morning paper, I realized. It’d make the evening dailies, but that still bought me a little time. I only needed a few hours, after all. A shower, a shave, a sleep. Karl would be found eventually, but not that day, not if my luck held. “I’ll want my suit cleaned and pressed by five, and my shoes cleaned,” I said to Monsieur Anton. “Send someone to collect them, would you? Might as well get me a copy of the _LA Examiner_ while you’re at it.”

“Certainly,” Monsieur Anton said, and handed over the room key.

The lobby was quiet, like the whole Chateau was holding its breath for me. No starlets swanning; no leading men having breakfast. I thought about Monty Clift as I walked back to the bungalows, and snorted at the idea I might bump into him looking like I did. There’d’ve been no dinner invitations for me in that state.

Zoë’s bungalow was all closed up when I passed, blinds drawn and no noise from inside.

After I’d given my clothes to the maid and accepted the newspaper, I found out Monty Clift would be issuing no more invitations for some time. The front page of the _Examiner_ had it splashed all over: _MONTGOMERY CLIFT IN SERIOUS CAR ACCIDENT_. His accident had finally displaced Rachel Nichols and the Incubus from the lead story, and Lord Cumberbatch’s demise was nowhere to be found.

I shivered, and caught sight of my face in the mirror on the wall in the lounge room. The red morning light was making its determined way through the window, casting odd aspects on my jaw and nose. I barely recognized myself. It seemed for a moment as though I’d somehow stolen Monty Clift’s luck for myself, and used it all up on a gamble. Used it up on Zoë, on a night ride east of the city and a shallow grave.

I vomited up pink-tinged bile. Then I got on with washing, and fell onto the bed still wet from the shower.  I slept like the dead until five. A knock at the door woke me, and I pulled on the Chateau-provided robe to answer it. It was housekeeping with my suit, which was almost good as new. I washed out my mouth after dressing, and wished I could take the edge off with a drink, but I couldn’t come at bourbon.

It was time to get out of there. Return to Zach, and see if he’d handled his dead body as tidily as I had mine. What a perfect couple we were, I thought sourly, with our cool heads for killing. We might brush these murders off our shoulders as calmly as lint, if it weren’t for a little problem with the stag films. If it weren’t for the fact that I feared Zach might use that level head and those tranquil hands to do for me as neatly as he’d done for Cumberbatch.

Because somewhere in the burying of Karl’s body it had occurred to me what I’d missed when he told me his story. Why had Karl picked _this_ night, of all nights, to take out Zoë? It couldn’t be a coincidence that Cumberbatch had met his end on the same night. And come to that, why had Karl kept referring to ‘the toff’ in the past tense? It might have meant nothing, but I couldn’t shake my certainty that Karl had known Lord Benedict Cumberbatch was no more.

If that were true, someone must have rung him up and told him, because the papers were silent on the matter. Maybe he got the order to put down Zoë during that same call. Over and again I replayed the sound of the lifting receiver I’d heard just after Zach pushed me out of the mansion.

If Zach had sent Karl after Zoë...well. It was one thing to do away with the aristocrat who, after all, had caused nothing but misery and fear. But Zoë? No, I couldn’t overlook that.

I still had Zoë’s gun, and though it was only one step up from a toy, it was better than nothing. I slipped it into my pocket where it sat a snug weight up against my thigh.

I had to have it out with Zach. I couldn’t let it be, and I wouldn’t wait here like an obedient pet. I wanted to rock him, to see him shake on that steadfast plinth. Just a little shove to watch him wobble, a little bet against the King of Spades, and then—then we’d see how the cards played out.

 


	17. The Killers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I love you. You know that. Tell me you know that.”
> 
> “I won’t die with a lie on my lips.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tags: violence, death, guns, blood.
> 
> A/N: One chapter left. Promise I won't leave it another year this time!!

I whiled away a few hours in the lounge, drinking water like I’d come out of the desert, and then flagged a cab outside the Chateau. I hopped out a ways down from the house. No need to announce my arrival to all and sundry. It took me another twenty minutes through the dusk-covered streets to reach the gates of the driveway. They were closed. It wasn’t unusual; Pegg liked to shut up tight in the evenings, but not always this early. It was only just on nine.

I had two choices: I could press the communicator at the front gate, or I could hoof it round the side of the estate to where I knew it was easier to get a leg up, and climb the railing fence. Something made me want to stay hidden, even though the danger was supposedly gone now. The Marquess of Holford was dining below ground tonight. Yet I didn’t feel safe, and besides, who knew what was waiting for me beyond those iron bars, behind the great stone walls?

I shinned over the wall at the side of the estate, and made my way to the hedge rows by the side of the mansion, near the French doors of the drawing room. A large rock poked out of the ground behind the hedge, and was flat enough for me to sit on. There was a light on behind the curtains, and for a moment my gut cramped with an overwhelming sense of exclusion. It was my own doing, of course, and yet I couldn’t help feeling rejected. Made to stand outside my bungalow last night, and now outside the mansion, it made me wonder where exactly I fit in the world.

“You never wanted any of this in the first place,” I muttered to myself. I shifted on the cold rock. Was it true, though? Had I never wanted this? I’d been so quick to jump at the chance. The suggestion to move to Chateau Marmont barely left Quinto’s lips before I was dragging my battered suitcase into the bungalow. And the mansion—as trapped into it as I was, I’d never bothered to make plans for escape, had I? Never pressed Zach about leaving, never tried to make my own way even if he wouldn’t.

Maybe I did deserve all this misfortune. Another cramp hit me and my mouth went dry. My hands were shaking, so I stuffed them between my thighs.

I waited there until the light behind the curtain went out, and then gave it some extra time. Even now I don’t know what it was I had planned, what I wanted to say to Zach, whether I wanted to kiss him or kill him—or maybe it was all the same thing in the end. All I knew was, we’d started this torrid journey together and we had to finish it together, too. My head was pounding. Once or twice I retched quietly into the bushes.

Around midnight, I chanced smashing the pane of glass on the French door with a rock from the garden beds. I’d imagined a tinkle, but in the silent night it was much louder. I waited a while, tensed for flight, but eventually I slid a hand in to unlock it. I cut myself, I was trembling so much, and I couldn’t stop the string of oaths that escaped my lips. But finally I got the door open, and pushed the curtains aside so I could go through.

I’d never entered the drawing room this way, and it disoriented me at first, like being in a fun house where the angles slant away in the directions you least expect. The moon coming through the glass doors made a barred pattern across the carpet that stretched crazily sideways, reaching towards the screening room door. The screening room door that was ajar, and shouldn’t have been. Never was, except that night I’d crept down to find Cumberbatch watching his stag films.

The back of my neck went cold, and I wrapped a slick hand around the grip of the gun in my pocket. I was too busy staring at the screening room door to notice the figure near the piano, until he stepped towards me, dipping his toes in the moonlight spill on the carpet.

“Hello, friend.”

I jerked so hard I’m surprised I didn’t shoot myself in the leg.

Quinto continued: “I told you to stay away until I called.”

“I got nervy,” I snapped. “And I got into a mess.”

“Oh?” A small rasp sounded, and his face lit up red in the flame of his lighter. “What mess was that?”

“Zoë. She found out who was doing the Incubus killings.”

“Did she, now?” He was quiet, contemplative.

“Ended with a shallow grave in the canyons.”

“I see.”

“Want to know whose? Do you even care?”

“I should be very sorry if it were hers,” he said, sounding faintly surprised. “But I did warn her.”

“That you did.”

The scent of his cigarette reached me then, and made me gag. He walked forward a little, so I could finally see his face.

“It was Karl Urban’s grave,” I said. “You knew him, didn’t you?” He gave no reply, but smoked on. “Karl told me all about what happened with Rachel Nichols. I reckon you were there too, Quinto. Did you watch Cumberbatch kill her? Did you enjoy it?"

Still he said nothing.

"Alright, then, if you won’t answer that: why’d you leave me sleeping alone down here, when you promised Alice you wouldn’t leave my side?”

“Sweet Alice,” he sighed. “One can hardly say no to her face, not when she’s begging with those eyes of hers. You haven’t asked how it went with the police. Want to know? Do you even care?” He was mimicking me with a faint whine and a mocking smile. “They’re satisfied it was an accident, since you ask. I even managed to keep it out of the evening papers, with the right incentive to the right officer.”

I ignored him, and continued doggedly on. I had to know. I didn’t want to know about the police, didn’t want to know what tale he’d spun. I had to know the truth. “You left me sleeping in here because you were setting up to kill him. Isn’t that right?”

Quinto gave a smile. “Is that really the way you plan to play it?” He was looking at my hand. I looked down too, and saw I had pulled the gun on him. "Goodness, bunny, I can't think why you're so peeved."

“Why’d you leave me?” I challenged. I kept the gun trained on him as best I could, but I couldn’t keep it still.

“I had a very good reason, you know.” He walked slowly back to the piano and sat down as though he were about to play, but he kept his eyes on me. I steadied my wrist with my other hand, and kept the gun pointed at his head.

_I’d kill for a drink_ , I thought, and let out a burst of wild laughter. Quinto started. He clumsily took out his cigarette case, and lit a Gauloise. Only then did he answer. “I went to see what became of the last of your manuscript. I thought he might have left something behind.”

The gun twitched like it had a life of its own. “Did he?” I hated myself for asking, for caring.

“Why, yes, as a matter of fact,” he said, and set his cigarette in the ashtray. “Yes. I found the last part of it scattered on the floor where he’d thrown it. I gathered it up and set it back on your desk. It’s waiting there for you now. You should—”

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not.” His cigarette burned on where he’d set it down, and he blinked behind the smoke. “I promise you. Let’s go up together, and you can see. You can hold the gun on me if you like. Jam it into my back and hustle me up the stairs like they do in the movies.”

“I don’t believe you anymore, Quinto. About anything. You’re a liar through and through, and worse. A murderer. You called Karl, didn’t you? _Didn’t you?_ Sent him out tonight to tie up your loose end at the Chateau. My God, I should’ve listened to Alice right from the start.”

“What songs has the lovely little Alice been singing about me?” he asked, and rose to walk closer to me, closer, closer. The moonlight turned him into an angel, melting over his inky hair and igniting his skin with a bright white glow.

“She warned me about you, but I was too…”

“Too what?”

Too in love, was the answer, but I’d be damned if I was going to admit that to him ever again. “Too eager to bed you,” I said. Close, but not too close to the truth. “Too eager to believe all your lies.”

“But dear heart, I _told_ you—”

“No more!” I shouted, and he held his breath for a moment, as I waved the gun around. “I can’t take it any more. And how you could think to take Pegg’s war story for your own! As if someone like you would ever…would _ever_ …”

“Would ever have the foolish notion to fight for my country?” he said icily. “Do you really think so little of me that I’d lie about my war record? Even after you found the medal they gave me?”

“Medal?” I spluttered. “What goddamn medal?”

“This goddamn medal.” He held up one hand as though to forestall me shooting him and slowly slipped the other into his pocket, coming out with something small and flat in his fingers. “I don’t know what filth Pegg’s been dripping in your ear, but this should be proof enough for you. Benny took it off me years ago. I thought he’d destroyed it…but you found it for me.” He flicked it with his thumb, like a coin, and it spun through the air to land at my feet. It was the worn gold star I’d pilfered from Cumberbatch’s drawer.

“Don’t you know the Medal of Honor when you see it?” he asked.

I gave the same crazy laugh I had earlier. “Medal of Honor, now? Just how dumb do you think I am, Quinto? You _admitted_ it! You admitted you lied about ever going to war!”

“I told you what you wanted to hear; you wouldn’t have accepted anything else that night. But yes, I did go to war, and Benny did save me, and I saved him—after a fashion. I’m not proud of my life, and I’m not proud of what I’ve done to you, because I love—”

“Don’t!” I spat.

His eyes went watchful, and he put his hands up as though to soothe me. “Alright, I won’t say it. But it’s true. Yes, I’ve done despicable things in my life, and perhaps accepting the Medal of Honor was one of them. But the higher ups were desperate to salvage something from the Kasserine Pass. They said I’d earned it because I dragged Benny with me when I crawled back across that wasteland. I couldn’t even remember what happened, and no one wanted to listen when I told them Benny had sacrificed himself for me first. They didn't like him much, you see. Still. I should've insisted on the matter.”

His face twisted.  I could almost believe his regret. I wanted to sneer at him, but my tongue stuck to the roof of my mouth, and he went on before I could work it loose.

“Going to war was the only selfless thing I ever did, and even then I couldn’t follow through. Couldn’t go back again when I was fit and ready, not after those hours lying in the Tunisian sun with Benny’s death rattle playing in my ear. _He_ knew. He knew whose skin I’d been looking to save. Do you know what I swore that day? I swore I would never put anyone or anything in front of my own good again. That I’d always make sure I had the best in life. Always have a soft bed to fall into at night. Always be safe and untouchable, no matter what it took. And I always was, from the time I woke up in that military hospital, until...until I met you.”

That got my tongue moving at last. “Don’t put this mess on me, you son of a bitch.”

His face softened. “Sweetheart. I’ll take full responsibility for it all between us, if that’s really what you want. For the first time in my life, I’d rather see someone else safe before me. But I don't think we’re safe yet, not in this house.”

I swiped the back of my hand across my brow. I felt woozy. My wet hands were slipping on the gun. “But I am,” I said. “Now. Unless _you_ …”

“Love of my life, you are not,” he murmured. “Please trust me. You may have killed Benny, but—”

“What are you talking about?”

“Alright,” he said impatiently. “ _Someone unknown_ killed Benny, but—”

“Don’t you try to put your sin on me, not when it’s just the two of us. _You_ killed him. _You killed him_.”

He gave me a sharp look. “The police agreed it was an accident, you know. You don’t have to set me up, unless you really want to see me hang.”

“It’s the gas chamber in California,” I said stupidly, and I dropped the arm holding the gun on him. I was trying to understand what he meant, what he was really saying. “And I don’t get you.”

He stepped a pace towards me. “Are you denying that you gave Benny a helping hand down the stairs?”

“How could I?” I demanded. “You drugged me. I was knocked out downstairs.”

“I didn’t drug you.”

“Yes, you did. In the whisky—”

“Listen to me,” he said, and his urgency was compelling. “ _I did not drug you_.”

“And yet I was drugged.”

“And yet you were drugged,” he agreed grimly, and it began to occur to me that perhaps he wasn’t just fobbing me off this time. “I was right, you aren’t safe here. _We_ aren’t safe. We have to go.” He glanced towards the screening room door, and his face hardened.

“Awfully sorry, chaps,” said a voice behind me. “But I’m afraid neither of you will be going anywhere.”

It was Pegg, and he was aiming a gun at me. A .38, pointed right at my heart, and _his_ hands were steady and calm. But I couldn’t fear for my life, not with Pegg holding the gun. I knew him, or thought I did. So I took a step towards him.

He let off a shot, quick as a blink, and a sidetable splintered an inch away from my knee. Zach let out a yelp like a dog whose tail has been stood on, and I stumbled sideways and sat down heavily in an armchair.

“I’ll thank you to do as I say,” Pegg said civilly. “I’d rather not spill your blood just yet, but I will if I have to.”

Zach was clutching at my shoulder so hard I whimpered. His grip was too close to the brand. “Are you alright?” he asked urgently.

“Quit crushing my arm and I will be!” I growled, and he released me. I’d dropped my own gun in the confusion, and I saw Quinto glance down at it. It was half under the chair, and hidden from Pegg by the angle of the chair leg. Quinto gave me a look full of meaning, but I only stared back, confused and afraid.

Zach jerked his head around to Pegg. “What will it take to let us live?” he asked. “Name it.”

His jump to murder was as much of a shock to me as the bullet Pegg had released. “He’s not going to kill us,” I said, because I still couldn’t believe it.

We all heard it then, a brisk _click-clack_ , _click-clack_. I was the first to see her, turning in my chair, because Zach wouldn’t take his eyes off Pegg. She swam towards us out of the darkness of the foyer until her blonde hair shone like a lantern in the doorway.

It was seeing Alice that convinced me Zach and I were in real danger. She was a different woman, dressed in cyanide-blue: a slim-fitted skirt and jacket smooth over her hips—hips that swayed as she made her way across to Pegg. Her ivory blouse was cut low enough that I could see the swell of her breasts. I was so used to her frills and lace and soft pastels that I gaped at her, and I could see by Pegg’s glower that it displeased him.

“I’m afraid there is nothing in this world that can save you now, Zach,” she said. Even her voice had changed, lower than her usual lilt and—if possible—more English than ever.

“But you have what you want,” he said, and gave an affable smile. “And bravura performance, by the way. Truly excellent.”

She gazed at him for a long moment. “I have never been fond of that mask you like to put on.”

“Nor I of yours, darling,” he said, and his tone, though still amiable, had a savage current running through it.

“Let’s get on, shall we?” Pegg said briskly, and aimed his gun at Zach’s head.

He ducked; I shouted. When I glanced back, Alice had her hand on Pegg’s shoulder, and he had lowered the weapon. “Not yet,” she said. “No execution without a fair trial, after all.”

“Is that how you see it?” Zach asked, jovial again. I noticed his hands shaking, though, as he lowered them from a defensive position. “You must have a spotless soul, Alice, to be so ready to throw the first stone.”

She stepped around Pegg, her heels _click-clacking_ again. “Cleaner than yours, I’d wager,” she said. “But it’s not you in whom I’m interested.” She shifted her gaze very deliberately from Zach to me. “Christopher. Tell me you weren’t involved. Make me believe you, please. I’d rather think my first impressions of you were the right ones.”

Sweat broke out in the small of my back, and I was sure my voice had deserted me. “I—I didn’t,” I said hoarsely. “I didn’t kill your cousin.”

She laughed.

“I didn’t!” I insisted, and she stopped laughing.

“I know,” she said. “You poor, silly thing. I know that. What I want to know is: what exactly was your involvement with the Incubus business? And don’t lie to me. We have the whole collection of films downstairs, after all.”

I could feel the familiar tremors in my hand, and the thumping ache at the base of my skull. If only I hadn’t dropped the gun. It was so close, just next to the clawed foot of the armchair, but if I reached to get it, they would see. They would know.

They would shoot me.

I didn’t know what I should say to Alice, whether it was better to come clean or lie, or what coming clean even meant, and my addled brain wasn’t going to be fast enough to figure it out. And that was going to get me killed.

“Please,” I said. “I need a drink.”

Zach moved to the right, toward the decanters on the side table, and Pegg snapped, “Oi! Stay where you are.”

“Good God,” he said impatiently. “Alice, you know how he gets. Let him have a drink, for pity’s sake, before he starts the French fits.”

She gave a small shrug. “Alright. It may be his last, after all. But no sudden movements. Pegg doesn’t like it.”

“Then keep your dog under control,” Zach replied, and I wished I could tell him to stop antagonizing them, especially the man with the gun, but my mouth was already watering at the thought of a drink and all I could concentrate on was the clink of glass on glass and the slow sloshing sound.

“Wait,” Alice said suddenly. “Why are you giving him scotch?”

“What does it matter?”

“Give him bourbon.”

Zach turned to face her, swirling the drink around in the glass and sniffing at it with a small smile. Around and around it washed in the tumbler until I broke, and: “For Christ’s sake, give it to me,” I begged.

“You see?” Zach said to Alice. “He doesn’t mind scotch.”

One word fell from her lips: “Pegg,” and with that, the whole decanter of whisky exploded. I shielded my face, hands flying of their own accord. Zach dropped the tumbler in his hand and jumped away from the flying glass, ducking down to the floor next to my chair.

“Give him bourbon,” Alice said again, when the shards had settled.

I was shaking uncontrollably now, a mixture of my tremors and my nerves. “What does it matter?” I squeaked. “What in the hell does it matter?”

Zach stood warily and stepped back to the side table, where he set down the glass. I could see his jacket pocket swinging with something heavy—the gun. He’d managed to pick it up in the confusion. He took a fresh tumbler and held it up to the light, turning it one way and the other, before lifting up the bourbon decanter gingerly. “I’m rather afraid to pour this one,” he said, “in case it explodes in my hand. Alice, won’t you tell Chris why it matters?”

I looked between them.

“No?” Zach continued, and dropped three ice cubes into the bourbon. “Then _I’ll_ tell him, shall I? It was Alice who drugged you last night. And she drugged Benny, that night you watched him watching films, and he collapsed. You were an accident, though. I rather think she went around doping all the scotch bottles in the house. Didn’t you, Alice?”

She did not reply. Zach handed me my drink and I gulped it down gratefully. My teeth clattered on the glass as I drank, but the fire of it calmed my gut. I wiped my sticky face down after I drained the tumbler, and sucked on my lips for a last taste.

It was as though they were all waiting for me to join the dots. “But,” I said slowly at last, “why would she do that?”

“I presume it was her first—and rather amateurish, might I add—attempt at killing Benny,” Zach said flatly. “Your second try took, though, didn’t it? I hope at least he didn’t know it was yours, Alice, that hand in his back. Or did you send Pegg to do it for you? Poor Benny.”

Alice finally spoke. “Poor Benny? Don’t pretend to care for him, not now.”

“We _both_ did what we had to,” Zach snarled, and I flinched away from him. “And you weren’t fond of him either, my sweet. Don't rewrite history.”

“I’m alive,” I said, and they both looked at me. “I’m alive, and I drank the scotch.”

“You? You barely wet your whistle,” Zach said. “Don’t you remember?” I did, now that he’d mentioned it. I remembered the way Alice whisked my glass away like a brusque hospital nurse, so I’d only had a sip of it.

Zach kept talking, chatting like this was any other night with the four of us gathered in the drawing room after dinner. “Admit it, won’t you, Alice? You tried it that way first, to make it look like an overdose. An accident, perhaps, or suicide. So don’t put that on me.”

She put a hand on one slim hip. “But it _is_ on you,” she said. “If _you_ hadn’t been doping him regularly, he could have peacefully gone to sleep, drifted off into the afterlife. But as it turned out…”

I finished for her. “As it turned out, he’d already built up tolerance and it only knocked him out. Alright, I see that.” I was catching up, freight-train slow, but I was getting there. “But why _now?_ And why _murder_ , for Christ’s sake? Why not just leave?”

“Because Benny was the Incubus."

Zach made a scoffing noise and shook his head.

"Zoë told me," Alice said over the top of him, and Zach went quiet again. "That night at the jazz club. Benny had stormed off and you two were at the bar, so she leaned in and told me, swore on her life, that one of you was the Incubus. She told me a convoluted story—I couldn't follow it all, and I didn't think it could possibly be true. In fact, I thought she was quite mad, though very entertaining."

I could imagine it: my Magnolia Girl whispering in Alice's ear over the crash of cymbals and screaming horns, her breath warm and sweet against Alice's cold skin. I'd bet whatever Zoe'd said would've seem drenched in paranoia. She could hide that obsessive edge but never for long. I wondered what it was made Zoë so sure. Her sources were myriad but I'd never been privy to 'em.

"So I didn't believe her, not entirely. But when we came home, the three of you came into in my room—" She broke off, and Pegg's mouth twisted like a mean dog's. "Well, I knew then that she was right. Knew it through and through, though I couldn't prove it in a court of law. The only thing I wasn't sure of was how much each of you was involved. But Benny was deep in; I could see that. I'd known it for some time, only I didn't want to face up to it. And I knew _I_ was next. I knew he meant to do me harm, or have his pet demon attend to me."

She was right, was the thing. I could see that. It would only have been a matter of time before Lord Benedict Cumberbatch worked up his courage to do to Alice what he _really_ wanted to do to her.

"He wasn’t always like that, you know," she continued, "but he was never the same after he came back from the war, and for a long time I thought it was just shellshock. But I realized, finally, that it wasn’t the war at all. It was the slow drip of poison fed into his soul by an American fiend.”

“She means me, I think,” Zach said, his tone light enough that it made me want to slap him. “Might want to skip over the metaphors, Alice. Christopher is in no state to untangle cryptic messages.”

“This is crazy,” I said. “All of it. We tried to stop Benny that night, Alice. Zach tried. And I tried...” By my side, Zach was fidgeting behind his back. I didn’t want to draw attention to him, so I kept my eyes fixed hard on Alice, on Pegg, on the gun in his hand. "And Zach would never do anything like that to you. Why, he couldn't. You—you know why."

“I’m well aware of Zach’s proclivities, but they do not absolve him. If Pegg here blows your brains out, I too might be charged with your murder. One does not have to be the active hand to be guilty.”

“It was all Benny’s doing,” Zach said stiffly. “Rachel Nichols. I wasn't even there that night! It was him, the Incubus. The films in the first place. And I certainly didn’t approve of getting the Weller Boys involved. It was a mug’s game. I was trying to get him to stop with the ladies.”

"What happened to Colton?" Alice asked.

Quinto said nothing. Colton being the least of my worries right then, I stood and pushed past Zach, making for the bourbon. “If you’ll forebear,” I said hoarsely, “I’d rather die with a bellyful of comfort if I have to die tonight.” I was taking a chance that Alice wouldn’t have me knocked off before she finished her accusations. I was taking a chance, too, that Pegg wouldn’t take matters into his own hands.

But most of all I was taking a chance that I could distract the two of them long enough for Zach to get the safety off the gun behind his back. Just who he’d use it on after he did was anyone’s guess, but he was a safer bet than Pegg and Alice as far as I was concerned.

I drank down one glass and then filled it again before Alice spoke.

“You never answered my question, Chris. What was your role in all this?”

I could have told her I was just another victim; Pegg had come out of the screening room tonight, which probably meant he'd watched some of those films. But I couldn't be certain what those films showed, whether those black and white records were really as black and white as I wanted them to be. And I'd participated that night in Alice's room, hadn't I? Unwillingly, maybe, but it didn't look good for me. I could see how I might look from a less forgiving perspective, and maybe—well, maybe that was a point. Maybe I should have tried harder to put a stop to things that night, or any one of the other nights when bad things were going on. I sure couldn't claim to be on the side of the angels.

And I wanted to live. Zach's approach tonight was clearly to to antagonize, and maybe he knew better than I did. I took a large swallow of my drink. “What is this, Alice? I try it on with you once in the stables, and suddenly I’m a sex killer?”

Pegg and Zach both stared at me. Alice didn’t blink. “Shoot out his kneecap, please, Pegg.”

I skipped aside at once, bourbon sloshing over my hand as I did. “Alright, alright, I didn’t kill anyone! I had nothing to do with anything.”

“You _know_ he didn’t,” Zach cut in.

“I know nothing of the sort,” she said. “He’s exactly the kind of lackey Benny preferred.”

“A wetbrain?” Zach said, and it cut me to the quick.

Pegg took up the refrain. “Well, drunks are easily manipulated, aren’t they? Gullible. Blimey, this one believes anything anyone tells him, so long as they look him in the eye when they do.”

I took another mouthful of bourbon as I thought that over. Zach was such a liar that even his truths had seemed like lies. Pegg had always seemed an honest enough fellow, but—“I’m guessing you didn’t get your life saved after all, Peggy,” I said. “Not at the Kasserine Pass, anyway.”

Pegg gave me a chummy smile. “You were bloody quick to believe it, though.”

Biblical phrases bubbled to my lips. Lovers of falsehood. Brood of vipers. But how much worse was I, tempted so easily into their churning nest? Beside me, I saw Zach had got the safety catch off the gun behind his back. I prayed he’d shoot me first, if he were going to shoot anyone. A small kindness.

I said sorrowfully, “I should’ve known better than to trust the lot of you.”

“Your problem, bunny, is that you trust whomever it is standing in front of you at any given moment.” Zach wasn’t even looking at me as he spoke, and nor, I noticed, were Alice and Pegg. They were transfixed on Zach. Finally. He’d finally got the gun on them.

“Everyone’s got a line on my problems but me,” I said to an oblivious audience. None of it seemed to matter all that much to me any more. The bourbon was working its black magic on me; I’d missed my old friend. Tequila just didn’t have the same hug to it.

“Get behind me,” Zach hissed, but being as I was behind the armchair anyway, it didn’t seem to matter all that much.

“For God’s sake, don’t get sentimental,” Alice said to him. She was quite pale. “It doesn’t suit you.” She came forward a few paces. Wanted a better view of my demise, maybe. She’d never struck me as the bloodthirsty type before, but I’d been wrong about her, hadn’t I? Underestimated her, just like Zoë had told me. I wondered if I’d go on being such a chump if my life were to continue after this night.

Odds were, I would.

I’m not sure if Alice gave a signal. Some days I think she did, because she closed her eyes a moment before the blast sounded. Some days I’m a little more charitable, figure it must have been Pegg’s itchy trigger finger. Doesn’t really matter, because the result was the same.

I sprang at Zach, baptizing us in bourbon as we collided. He staggered and fell against the bar, more ungainly than I’d ever seen him, but landed unharmed, though the whole bar shuddered and clattered with shaking bottles. My ears rang and my gut burned. I put a hand to it and felt wet warmth.

The bullet had gone right through me, back to front. I could see where it had driven into the bar, about an inch away from Zach’s hip.

The blazing in my belly subsided. I couldn’t quite feel my legs and I seemed to be tipping over. I landed heavily on my knees and fell to my side. Zach was breathing hard, his hair falling forward on his glistening brow as he stared down at me. I reached out to grasp his ankle.

When he looked back at them and spoke, he was as cool as ever. “You missed, Peggy. Bad luck.”

I raised my head weakly. Alice was poised as if to flee, with Pegg next to her, his arm outstretched across her as though it would block the bullet. For a moment, Pegg looked at me. I don't know why he didn't shoot at Quinto again. There might have been a shade of regret in his eye, like he was awful sorry he’d done me harm, but it was wiped out an instant later. A sharp pop sounded above me and Pegg’s left eye exploded, a black hole where the white had been, and Alice’s cheek flecked red. His arm dropped, and he crashed to the floor.

Alice leapt back to avoid the pool seeping from Pegg’s ruined face. She clutched at her mouth, knuckles white, then spoke from behind her fingers: “Well, Zach. Here we are, then.”

“Here we are,” he agreed. He cocked the gun again and aimed it at her.

“Don’t,” I whispered, but the blood loss was too much for me. I drifted in and out of consciousness. I was aware of movement. Zach’s ankle slipped from my hand and I closed my fingers on air. There was a fading _click-clack-click-clack_ noise. I could feel the carpet under my cheekbone, soaked with something. I thought it was blood for a moment, until I realized it was the source of the bourbon stench filling my nostrils.

 

***

 

And so here I am, back where I started my tale, bleeding to death in a Bel-Air mansion. Came round just a minute ago to find myself in Zach’s arms, him looming over me like he can protect me from the whole world.

“You should’ve let me take the bullet,” he says, and his big eyes fill with crocodile tears.

“Aw, cut it out, will you?” I’ve got a hole right through me and a guy who still wants to make it all about him. “You’re no good, Quinto. You’re a no-good son of a bitch, and you don’t need to pretend any different, not when we’re coming to the grand finale. You told me you were poison and you were right about that. Only honest thing you ever…” I have to stop. It’s hard to breathe.

“I love you. You know I love you.”

He tries to kiss me but I push him away. The effort makes me gasp in pain, and the gasp makes him stop trying. “You love money and comfort and fucking,” I tell him. “Just get outta here. Gather up some collectibles you can cash in, and go. I’ll be dead long before the cops get here but at least my corpse can still serve your purpose. Blame me for Pegg. It was always supposed to be a set up. So set it up.”

He hoists me up so I slump against the chair leg and I smile grimly. The knowledge that I’m right about him, finally right, gives me some small measure of satisfaction. But he scrambles to his feet, and then I hear the tinny _ding_ of a telephone receiver being lifted and his voice, shaking and afraid, asking for an ambulance _please hurry, tell them they have to hurry…_

My vision’s going white around the edges, so when I see his face again it’s like he’s at the end of a long tunnel.

“They’re coming. Hold on.”

“It’s too late,” I cough. I can taste more than spit and bourbon in my mouth.

“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.”

I don’t know whether I believe him, but it doesn’t seem worth my dying moments to fight over it. He folds himself up beside me and eases me into his arms again.

“You’ll get blood all over you,” I tell him.

“I don’t care.” He’s dropping fat tears onto my face in an irritating way.  “Don’t die. You can’t die. I’m telling you, Chris—”

“Oh, God. Just be quiet.”

“I love you. You know that. Tell me you know that.”

“I won’t die with a lie on my lips.” I’m glad he seems upset. I’d be gladder if I believed it. It doesn’t hurt anymore, so that’s something. In the distance I hear sirens. He’s rocking me gently, like he has to move to quell the panic.

“Don’t die,” he says again, so plaintive my fists twitch.

“God help me, I’ll get up from my dying and beat your face in if you say that again.”

He lets out a sobbing laugh until I cough again, and blood splatters from my mouth. I never pictured my death would be so long and messy. Sudden: that’s the way I thought I’d go. “You say you love me, then put me out of my misery. A quick twist of my neck, or—or stop up my mouth and nose—”

“No. No, no, no, not you. Never. You’ll be alright, you’ll be just fine, and when you’re better I’ll take you away and treat you the way you deserve to be treated.” He wipes my mouth down with a handkerchief. A goddamned handkerchief. I want to push it away, but I don’t have the strength.

“Listen,” he says, lifting his head. “I can hear them.”

I can’t. I hear rushing water, something gurgling, some dame singing…I don’t think it’ll matter anyway if they get here; I’m done for. Zach’s eyes are huge in his head, like in the fairy tales my ma used to tell me…eyes big as dinner plates, like he could eat up my soul with them…

_God forgive me_.


End file.
